


take me back to the night we met

by cheekaspbrak



Series: i cannot help it if i'm hard to love [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Actor!Richie, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Insecure Eddie Kaspbrak, Insecure Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-08-20 08:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheekaspbrak/pseuds/cheekaspbrak
Summary: These eyes never blink, they just stare. There’s so much emotion in those wide, brown eyes, and it stings. He doesn’t have to hear them speak to know what they’re saying. He knows them like the back of his hand. They’re his only weakness, the only thing that could pry him open. They’d pull at his ribs until his organs were revealed, but they can’t because they have no hands. He wants to stick his tongue out at the eyes and mock them for their lack of hands. They do have hands, though, just not here. Somewhere far away, somewhere like California.ORRichie and Eddie fell in love fifteen years ago, but it comes to an end, like all things do. They're both too stupid to realize that it's hanging over every minute of their lives, like an all-consuming shadow.





	1. your eyes were filled with tears

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT! IS! THIS! WHAT AM I DOING!  
Who knows? Not me. Here is the product of an insane inspiration journey I had today. I don't know who I am anymore.  
This is intended to be a second part to my other fic, "little boy afraid". I am going to try my absolute best to write it so that it can be read as a stand-alone story, without sacrificing quality.  
The title of the story and individual chapters come from the song "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron.

_ “What are you thinking about, Eddie?” _

She asks him that question a lot and he’s never sure why. It’s a habit. The way some people push their glasses up their nose even when they’re not wearing them anymore. 

He still does that. Eddie has seen the interviews on YouTube.

_ “Hello! This is Jessica Wilson here with Richard “Richie” Tozier and…” _

Eddie never listens. He just watches him talk and press his fingers against his cheek, trying to adjust something that’s no longer there. _ A phantom limb _. 

What is Eddie thinking? His wife’s guess is as good as his own. What does she think he’s thinking about? Probably her. The question is rooted deep in her insecurities. _ “You’re thinking about me, aren’t you?” _

He’s never thinking about her. Object permanence. She only exists when she’s standing in front of him. Conversations feel tired, like he’s saying the same thing to everybody. He learned a long time ago that they all pretend to hear the words, but nobody is listening. Especially his wife. He never has to think about what he’s saying to respond to her.

_ “I’m fine, dear.” _

_ “I missed you today.” _

_ “I love you too, sweetheart.” _

His brain runs on autopilot. It sounds like the hum of an old computer, _ hmmmmmm. _ He wishes the noise would go away. He wants to hear his ears ring in the silence. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard silence. Just once, many years ago. 

_ Hmmmmmmmm. _

_ “What are you thinking about, Eddie? Are you okay?” _

_ “I’m fine, dear.” _

_ “You’re thinking about me, aren’t you?” _

_ “No, Myra.” _

_ “I waited here at home for you all day. Why are you so cold to me?” _

_ “I missed you today. I promise.” _

_ “You missed me? I missed you too. Oh, I love you.” _

_ “I love you too, sweetheart.” _

_ Hmmmmmmmm. _

If someone he knew when he was a kid saw him now they might ask him what happened. He was a quiet kid, but not around his friends. Not around Richie. He was a fireball around Richie. He can’t let himself think about Richie too long. Now he’s tame, subdued. It’s easier this way. 

The pair of eyes watching him disagrees. Actually, they do agree. It is easier, but it’s not better. He’s learned to ignore the pair of eyes, unblinking, behind thick-rimmed glasses. They dig into his soul, like a rodent searching for food. _ I am not something to be searched through, _he’d like to say. It’s a lie, and the eyes know it. He’s a heap of dust and bone, crawling with maggots and roaches. He may have been a man once. He isn’t anymore. It reminds him of a quote he can’t recall, but he remembers the jist: everyone will be eaten by maggots, in the end. He’s not dead yet, but he’s crawling with them. The biggest one- an ugly, white thing- looks too much like Myra. Round and wrinkly with a pinched face.

Richie would laugh at that. It sounds different now, quiet and hollow, but it’s still him.

“Myra, turn that off.” The TV is taunting him but he won’t look at it and give it the satisfaction.

“Did you know he lived in Derry? That’s where you’re from, dear. Did you know him?” He hates the way she says things, like he needs to be reminded. He doesn’t have dementia, not yet, as much as she might like him to.

“No. I didn’t know him.” The keys in his hand are incredibly fascinating now. His cab key, his shed key, his house key. He counts them. _ One, two, three. One, two, three. _

“I’ve always thought he seemed so crass. I’m glad you didn’t know him, I don’t think you two would get along.”

He wants to laugh. He doesn’t. _ One, two, three. _He wants to cry. He can’t hear what he’s saying but the sound of his voice is pulling him in. The TV laughs at him, or maybe it’s just the talk show host. He feels like he’s drowning in memories that he promised himself he would never relive.

_ I’m happy now. _

The eyes are watching him. He doesn’t know where they are, probably California. They’re watching him, though. They don’t make a sound. They can’t, but they want to. They want to tell him he’s lying. 

_ You can’t. _

They don’t blink. Myra makes a grunting sound as she turns off the television. _ One, two, three. _He sets down the keys and looks towards her. She puffs out air as she gets up from the couch and it makes him sick. It’s too familiar. He feels light headed.

_ “Lookin’ good, Mrs. K!” _

His brain supplies the memory before he can stop it. His mother hated that boy so much. She never talks about him now. He wonders if she’s seen him on TV, too. Maybe she makes comments to herself about how crass he is. 

“Are you okay, baby? You look so pale.” He flinches at the pet name. She’s too far away to notice, “Lie down, I’ll get a thermometer.” 

“I’m fine, dear.” The frown that follows his words is repulsive, her lips look like they’re melting off of her face. His stomach lurches. He swears her eyelid is twitching, sweat gleaming on her forehead. The way it shines looks like a lighthouse beacon going back and forth. The light hits Eddie’s eyes, searing straight through his eyeball to his brain. 

If he keeps looking at her he’ll go blind. 

_ “Blind as a bat, Eds. But I can still see how pretty you are without them.” _

Everything burns. He’s on fire.

“I’m going for a walk. Need some fresh air. Gotta stay active.” 

She doesn’t argue. If she does, he can’t hear her. When he’s outside the world spins a little less. People walk down the street like they have somewhere to be. They all probably do. The city that never sleeps. Horns honk and buses rumble. He doesn’t think, he can’t. If he lets himself think then it will hurt. He doesn’t want to hurt anymore. 

This is how he lives everyday. It’s time to move on. The people of the city wind around him, bumping into each other but never stopping. He’s a lot like them. He keeps moving so he doesn’t have to think. Nobody in this city wants to think either, their brains would bleed like a torn muscle. His brain is like a bicep that hasn’t been used in years. His heart is like that, too. They’re soft, malnourished. If he uses them it will open a vessel, bleed until it’s pouring out of his mouth. There’s too much to be thought about. He hasn’t thought in fifteen years. He’s thirty-three. If he had fifteen years of thoughts all at once he’d drown.

The eyes look at him and they look mournful. They want to tell him that he’s already drowning. 

_ I’m not. _

He wants to yell that out loud, but if he did the bubbles from his throat would rise through the water and pop, giving way to the lie. He _ is _drowning. 

_ So be it. _

These eyes never blink, they just stare. There’s so much emotion in those wide, brown eyes, and it stings. He doesn’t have to hear them speak to know what they’re saying. He knows them like the back of his hand. They’re his only weakness, the only thing that could pry him open. They’d pull at his ribs until his organs were revealed, but they can’t because they have no hands. He wants to stick his tongue out at the eyes and mock them for their lack of hands. They do have hands, though, just not here. Somewhere far away, somewhere like California. Eddie has never been to California. 

_ “It’s not safe to travel, Eddie, sweetie.” _

That’s not why, though. He hasn’t been there because the eyes would meet their hands, and then they could tear into him. They’d be gentle, carving out skin and muscle with soft fingers to see what’s inside. He’s afraid of what’s inside. He hasn’t seen it in fifteen years. He’s afraid the hands would hold it up and look at it like a rodent. They’d tap it against a rock and try to figure out what it is.

_ “You’ve changed, Eds.” _

_ I didn’t want to. _

A lie. It was easier this way, remember? Easier, but not better. He doesn’t want to see what’s inside. He’d sooner die than see what’s inside. He’d leap off of a cliff, blood would pour through his mouth, maggots would eat him and he’d turn to dust and bone. Everyone will be eaten by maggots, in the end. Even him, even Myra, even Sonia, even Richie. 

There are lots of cliffs in California, probably. He doesn’t think there’s any in New York City. When he needs a cliff, he’ll find one. Maybe he’ll finally go to California. Maybe back to Maine. Maybe he’ll make his own cliff, cut out of the corner of the rooftop of an apartment building he’s never been to before.

That should be tall enough. When he needs a cliff, he’ll find one. It will be pretty from up there, even with the sound of rushing water or car horns honking. It will be pretty, as long as it’s high enough. The lights might twinkle, or the stars, just for him. Maybe the brown eyes in his head will twinkle, too. Hiding behind glasses with thick lenses, they’ll twinkle with the lights, maybe from the tears, and then they’ll close. Finally.

“Hellooooo! You can’t just run into people like that!” He’s never been stopped for running into someone before. This is _ New York _, after all. The woman standing in front of him must be a tourist, if she was a local she would have kept walking. 

“I’m sorry.” He tells her, but they both know he doesn’t mean it. She looks startled when she meets his eyes, and forgives his ingenuine apology. The tourist brushes by him like she can’t leave fast enough. He’s under a pillar of construction, shaded from the day. He turns to look at himself in the window to his right. The tourist was pitying him, he realizes. She had seen how bloodshot his eyes were. He forgets that most people don’t walk around looking like this, because this is how he always looks.

The eyes pity him too. They look as startled as the tourist did when he looked at her. They stretch out round and wide, like the top of a foaming latte. 

He stupidly realizes all at once that they’re no longer wearing their glasses, and they’re not in his mind anymore. They’re staring at him through the window of a coffee shop on Lexington Avenue and 27th Street, unblinking, unmoving. They have no glasses, but they _do_ have hands. They also have legs that are bolting for the door. 

He turns on his heel in the direction of his apartment. He won’t run, he can’t cause a scene. The tourist seems to think he’s following her and picks up the pace, but he doesn’t. The construction ends and the sun shines down on him, burning his eyes. 

“Eddie! Wait!” His heart quivers in his chest, it hasn’t been used in so long and now it can feel something calling out for it. It rolls over, like an engine about to start. A fifteen-year-old engine. 

“Eddie, please!” The voice is closer now, and he keeps walking even though it’s pointless. He’s already been caught.

The eyes' newfound pair of hands thunder down onto his shoulders, hurting him. He’s being turned around like a Spinning Top, colors and lights and sounds all blending together.

Eyes meet with no glasses to separate them from each other. Without the glasses, Eddie thinks their eyes may just meld with each other, fused together by a blowtorch. They still haven’t blinked. 

“You remember me, right?” Eddie could punch him. Why wouldn’t he remember him? 

“You’re a moron.” There’s no inflection in his voice, but something splits in his chest and splinters like wood. It feels good, like bones popping. His lips- lips that Eddie is just now remembering- curl into a smile. The beginnings of a laugh rumble in his chest, loud and open, much different than the quiet one Eddie had heard on the television. His lips crack when his own face stretches into a smile, like ligaments bending into a new yoga pose. He’s laughing on the sidewalk with Richie Tozier. Someone takes a picture, flushing red when the phone makes a noise. 

He looks over at them dazedly. He doesn’t know them. Neither does Richie, judging by the look on his face. Why did they take a picture? He looks behind him, but there’s nothing but a gray brick wall. He remembers the television. _ Oh. _ He’s laughing on the sidewalk with _ World Famous Comedic Actor _Richie Tozier. 

“I’m so sorry.” The person apologizing isn’t the one taking the picture- they’re already gone. The person apologizing is Richie. Eddie thinks he must be apologizing for the picture, but it sounds deeper than that. 

“It’s okay.”

“I still can’t get used to that happening, and it’s been ten years.”

“Does it happen a lot?”

“Three, four times a day. If I only go outside for coffee and a trip to the grocery store.”

“You still grocery shop for yourself?”

“...Yeah? Eddie, I still cook for myself.”

“Oh. Wait. Still? Richie, you set popcorn on fire three times.”

“I’m a changed man, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Wow. You haven’t outgrown the whole ‘dumb nickname’ thing? Seriously?”

“Let me take you out to dinner.” Another picture is taken of them, Richie doesn’t blink. He’s awaiting Eddie’s answer, like a gentleman. Eddie can’t breathe, he shifts from one foot to the other, “As friends.” Richie says, and Eddie realizes just then that his hands have been on his shoulders the entire time. His hold is tight, like he’s scared Eddie will run away. Eddie can’t say he blames him, considering.

“Okay, let’s go out to dinner.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight? Richie, I…” Without the glasses, Richie’s eyes are so open, so vulnerable. He can still read them so well. “I don’t think I have anything else to do tonight.”

“Perfect. Where would you like to go?” He can only think of a handful of places he’s bothered to eat at since moving to New York. He knows so little about the city that he still tells people he’s new to town, fifteen years later. 

“I like Chinese. There’s a restaurant a few blocks away from here. We could probably walk.” 

When they’re seated in the restaurant, Eddie finally takes him in all at once. He’s changed, his freckles are faded and his hair is shorter with less of a curl to it. It’s still long, but falls more flat around his face. He thinks it must be from years of mismanaging it. He’s wearing an ugly colorblock sweater made up of atrocious oranges and blues, but it suits him the way that everything loud and obnoxious suits Richie. His face is just beginning to wrinkle, like all faces do at thirty-three, and his face is coated in a layer of stubble he wouldn’t have been able to grow fifteen years ago. His eyes haven’t aged a day.

They move around each other like one moves through their home, like they know the way even with their eyes closed. All the furniture has been moved an inch to the left, though, so they occasionally stub their toe or knock something over. They move in sync, but clumsily. 

“You’re married.” Richie, who has been staring at him for as long as he has, speaks for the first time with a tilt of his head. 

“How did you know?”

“Do people put rings on their left ring finger as a fashion statement now? All the tabloids say my style is horrifying, but I didn’t realize I was _ that _out of the loop.”

“I _ am _married, asshole.”

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Suddenly Eddie is incapable of making eye contact. His eyes slide down to the menu he was handed.

“Her name is Myra.” There’s a beat of silence. The menu shakes in his hands.

“Welcome to the Super Dragon!” Their waiter cuts in, looking between them both. He is very smiley, _ too _smiley. He recognizes Richie, “It is an honor to have you here, Mr. Tozier. What can I get you to drink?”

They order. Richie smiles and thanks him, but Eddie knows where to look. The waiter thinks ‘Mr. Tozier’ is happy, but he doesn’t know to look at his eyes. It’s all in the eyes. Richie’s eyes are tired.

“You’re married to a woman?” Eddie is tired too.

“Yep, my beautiful Myra Kaspbrak.”

“Wow.” Richie says, snorting out a laugh. Even in his annoyance he can tell that the laugh is more genuine than the one he had given the waiter.

“Wow, _ what? _” Richie looks like a kid keeping a secret to himself. He’s forcing his lips to twist down but they don’t want to, careening up into a smile.

“Nothing, Eddie, it’s just…” He laughs again, “You sound like a receptionist that’s been working for 34 years and has nine kids with her husband, Bob who hasn’t had sex with her since child number seven.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“‘My _ beautiful- _ ” Richie cuts himself off with laughter, still trying to be serious, “‘My _ beautiful _\- it was Myra, right?- Myra Kaspbrak.” 

Giggles are flowing steadily out of his mouth, now. He seems to think his impression of Eddie was great. It wasn’t, considering he could barely say it without laughing. With the way Richie is laughing, though, with red cheeks and bright eyes, Eddie thinks it was pretty good.

“Stop laughing, asshole, that’s my wife.”

_ “My wife.” _Richie mimics, putting his hands on his hips and looking stern. Their drinks are delivered and they have to order. He picks something on the menu at random, too distracted by the way Richie quiets back down when the waiter shows up. He pushes against his nonexistent glasses, hand covered by the oversized sweater sleeve. It’s a safety net, Eddie realizes. The glasses acted as a barrier between him and the rest of the world. He searches for them when he’s nervous.

When the waiter leaves, Richie leans forward on his elbows. Eddie’s soul is bared. He won’t stop thinking about maggots.

“You said you were gay, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t avoid the question.”

“You didn’t ask a question, idiot.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it was obvious. Why the fuck are you married to a woman?”

The world spins again. He can’t think about these things. His brain is an unused muscle, it will tear in two. There’s no fixing an injury like that.

A dish clatters somewhere in the restaurant. Richie’s hand is closer to Eddie’s than it was before.

“You know why.” It’s all he can manage to say. 

“You still talk to her?” Richie really _ does _know why. Eddie knows “her” is his mother. Richie knows that she was his only weakness. She still is. 

“I do. I don’t know why, but I do.”

“I don’t talk to my mom anymore.”

“Good. She was a piece of shit.” He knows Richie wants to say _ “So is your mom” _but he doesn’t. Instead he looks at him, long and hard. This is what Eddie was afraid of, eyes attached to hands. One of the hands wraps around his own. 

_ “Richie.” _ He says. He’s begging and he doesn’t even know why. Or maybe, he doesn’t _ want _to know why, but he does. He’s begging because he knows he can’t stop himself from thinking again if Richie doesn’t let go of his hand.

“It’s okay.” He doesn’t know why Richie said that, there are so many things it could mean. The warmth from his hand starts to sink into his own and he’s amazed at how familiar it feels. They’re rougher, the nails are painted a neon green, but they’re still safe. 

“Mr. Tozier, could we take your picture?” The manager of the restaurant has joined them, but they won’t even look at him. They’re talking to Richie, pointing at the wall and back at the digital camera in their hands. It’s a tradition at little hole-in-the-wall places like this, to put up pictures of famous people that have dined in their restaurant. Eddie’s never considered how violating it is until now. He’d nearly cried when he took a picture for his ID and it came out looking like a mugshot. Richie can’t go anywhere without his picture being plastered everywhere. Still, he agrees, smiling as the flash goes off. When the manager shows him how it turned out, he pushes the imaginary glasses against his face again, fingertips falling through the nonexistent frame and poking his cheek. The manager leaves, staring at his camera.

“That’s a cute habit.” He hears himself saying before he even realizes he’s talking.

“What?”

“The- um, well, you push your glasses back, even though they’re not there.”

“Oh.” Richie stews in this new information. He looks taken aback, “That’s weird. I didn’t know I do that. I haven’t worn them since I found my agent.”

“Why? I always liked them.”

“They were hideous.” It’s his turn to sound like sound like a receptionist that’s been working for 34 years and has nine kids with her husband, Bob who hasn’t had sex with her since child number seven. He looks down at his food.

“I liked them.” He repeats. He can’t remember when their food showed up but he hasn’t touched it. He tries to swallow some of the rice.

“I still wear them sometimes, I guess. When my agent isn’t around.” His voice is quiet, like they’re not in a city filled with screaming horns and buzzing voices. He sounds like he’s afraid someone might hear their conversation. 

“I always thought you looked like Buddy Holly.” He smiles at Richie and his face shakes like tired legs after running a marathon. He hasn’t smiled this much in years. Fifteen of them. Richie smiles back with a smile that brings memories of sneaking through windows and driving around town.

“Woo-ee-ooh, I look just like Buddy Holly,” Richie sings quietly, eyes sinking into Eddie’s. Eddie joins in on the fun, setting down his fork and dancing with his hands.

“And you’re Mary Tyler Moore!” He likes the way Richie points at him with a teasing finger. He can’t believe he was listening to Myra tell him how he would have never been friends with Richie Tozier mere hours ago.

When dinner ends, they exchange numbers and tight hugs. He thinks Richie might be crying, but it could just be the city lights reflecting back at him. Richie tells him not to forget about him, _ this time _. Eddie thinks it would be too romantic to tell him that he never did in the first place, so he says nothing and goes on his way. The eyes still follow him home.


	2. i've been searching for a trail to follow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hopes he trends on Twitter. He hopes his mom never finds out. He hopes his death is as plastic as the rest of his life seems to be. He doesn’t want anybody he loves there. They don’t deserve to see what will unfold. Only let in the people who didn’t care. Let them tear at his body and look at the bruising around his neck, let them take selfies with his unmoving, plastic smile, let them cut off pieces of his clothes and take them home with them for a hundred dollars a piece. Let his last moments be for monetary gain. Show the world how selfish it is, let it look in the mirror one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello this chapter is brought to you by a mentally exhausted crazy person! I'm not as proud of this chapter as I was the first one, but I think that's because I've been staring at it for too long. Let me know what you think!

Richie can’t remember what her voice sounded like. It’s been fifteen years since he last heard it. He doesn’t think, though, that he could have told someone what it sounded like all those years ago. 

He was a coffee table. No, he was less important than a coffee table. He was a picture on the wall. Never spoken to, rarely looked at unless a stranger wandered into the house and took a moment to admire him. 

_ “What a lovely picture.” _

He wasn’t a lovely picture, though. He was an ugly picture that was mistakenly put in the frame. Mistakenly put in the family tree. He wonders if his mother felt the same way about herself.

She never spoke to him about important things. When they spoke, it was usually her telling him to be quiet. He was like a radio that wouldn’t stop playing, no matter how much she turned down the sound. He thinks she probably wished she could throw the radio into the garbage. His mother never spoke to him about important things because they hurt too much. ‘Important things’ looked too much like her parents. He wonders what his dad looked like, if he looked like ‘important things’, too. Her dad looked like a long-necked bottle and his insides were liquidy brown and pungent. Her mom was orange and round and always in pain, filled to the brim with little capsules. They made an odd pair, a painful pair. If she talks about important things, she would be admitting that she has a problem. Having problems makes you weak. Richie learned it all from her.

So Richie has no problems. Having no problems makes you fun and carefree. He likes to be the man with no problems, the hotshot, the center of the world. A man without problems is unstoppable, rocketing through life until the fuel runs out. The fuel always runs out. His agent and friends like to remind him of that, pointing to magazine covers riddled with pictures of Lea Michele crying over her dead fiance at the Teen Choice Awards. 

_ “He was 31 years old.” _

_ _ _ “You have so much potential.” _

_ _ They don’t care, usually. He makes them a lot of money. He throws them a lot of parties. His potential isn’t talent, it’s a source of income for everyone around him.

_ Fuck potential. _

His house is huge but empty. It’s filled with furniture, tidy like a doll house. Like a doll house, it’s filled with nothing but Barbie and Ken dolls. Pretty little plastic dolls. He used to roll his eyes at the “plastic” stereotype of Hollywood years ago. Now he sees how true it all is. Plastic everywhere. Plastic smiles. His smile is plastic, too. Cheap and thin. Actually, it’s very expensive, depending on where they want to use the plastic. A photoshoot? A talk show? A movie? Pay him money and he’ll give you plastic. 

Plastic fixes all problems. It covers up affairs and drug abuse. It makes people fall in love. It makes money. 

It all floats out to the ocean and makes up one big plastic island. That’s where Hollywood is, floating on the big plastic island the size of Texas. It murders the sea turtles and dolphins and gets into the lungs of the fish until they die. It’s everywhere.

“Richie, are you okay?” He’s not breathing, little bits of plastic have filled him up inside. There’s no more room to breathe. The clock on his wall ticks, telling him if he doesn’t answer the question before the time is up they’ll send him away. 

Why  _ is  _ there a clock on his wall? That’s so pretentious. Everyone has a phone now. He doesn’t remember buying the clock, because he is in a rented home in New York City. It all looks the same from where he’s at, though, floating on the pile of trash. 

“Richie.” He scared everybody five years into his mad dash of fame. He overdosed on something. He doesn’t like to think about it, but everyone else won’t let him forget it.  _ Tick, tick, tick.  _ They’ll send him away if he doesn’t answer soon.

“I’m okay, Stan.” He looks over at him for the first time, and Bill blinks back.

“I’m not Stan, Richie.” He nods stupidly and looks back at the hands on the clock. The hands of the clock are gone, the whole face of the clock is gone. It’s replaced with a burning red light and letters that read  _ “WRONG ANSWER”. _

“I’m sorry, I forgot. I’m tired.” It’s the truth, but Bill looks at him like it’s not. He hasn’t slept in 36 hours. He hasn’t slept  _ well _ in 7 months. It’s not fair that Bill doesn’t believe him.

“Do you know where you are?”

“New York City.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“If it has to be. Where were you?”

“I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk. Jesus, just google it. I’m sure there’s a fucking picture somewhere.”

Bill shifts on the couch like he wants to say something. Something like  _ “Can you blame me for being worried?” _ . Richie wonders what he would say to that question. He likes to think he’d respond to it well, but he wouldn’t. He doesn’t like to worry people, it makes him feel gross. When people are worried they try to make his choices for him. 

_ Tick, tick, tick.  _ The clock is speaking to him again and fear rises into his chest. There’s been too much silence, did Bill ask him a question? Should he crack a joke, now? 

He thinks of himself as a robot. Like a vacuum that is stored in a closet. He’s used when people need him. He sits in the closet with a smile frozen on his face so no one opens the door and catches him crying. If they catch him crying, they’ll send him away. 

When he left his mom and set on his way to LA, he thought he was changing his life. He was, but not in the way he wanted. They, the intangible  _ they,  _ took one look at him and pinned him down under their thumb. He wasn’t good enough. There was something wrong in his wiring. He was a mirror of all of them, of all of their short-comings. They don’t like looking in the mirror. He knows the feeling well. He doesn’t like to look in the mirror anymore. There’s always something he could change. 

_ It’s constructive criticism. _

That’s what he always tells himself. It’s never constructive. It’s destructive. He’d like to chip away at himself until he’s a pile of rocks.  _ Chip, chip, chip.  _ Maybe  _ they  _ would be happy then. They’ll never be happy, even when he is a pile on the ground. When he dies, there will be mourning people. They will tell everyone how much they loved him, how much they cared. None of them knew him. 

_ “I know you like the back of my hand, Rich.” _

He made a mistake that he’d like to change. It’s another thing he’d like to chip away. It was the mistake of letting somebody get too close, look too long. Everything looks better if you don’t look at it too long. A picture, a story, the mirror. He looks at himself in the mirror too long sometimes, until his features start to float away. The glasses were the first to go, then the smile. Then his eyes. The curly hair, too. He wonders if the mirror recognizes him. He wonders if  _ they  _ recognize him. 

Childhood memories make him sick. His mother sends him photos every once in awhile. He doesn’t know why she does it, maybe it makes her feel like she wasn’t just a ghost of a person, like she existed at one point. She existed long enough to take these few pictures. Even then, he thinks she only took the pictures to send to his dad, wherever he was. She took the photos to see if he might come back. He looks at every photo and he hates what he sees. He’s not sure if he hates it because of how it looks or if he hates it because that’s not what he looks like anymore. Little Richie. He’d hated himself then, too. He was supposed to grow out of that. He stares at the photos until the features float away and he can pretend that he never had a face to hate.

Reflective surfaces are his worst enemy. That’s where the intangible  _ they  _ exists. If he looks at them they start to tear him apart. They start to piece him together like he’s a video game character they’re creating. When they’re finished, he looks nothing like himself.  _ They  _ like it better that way. Sometimes the glorious talent doesn’t come with a matching face. He’s the kind of attractive that “isn’t for everyone” or so the internet says. Like Benedict Cumberbatch. 

He’s still looking at the clock and he can’t remember when Bill left. The clock’s glass cover reflects back an image of himself. It’s faint and hard to see, but he still doesn’t want to look at it. He’s wearing his glasses because they feel safe when they’re on, as long as he doesn’t look at himself. 

If he looks at himself for too long he thinks he’ll float away entirely. That’s when the funeral will be, and all the mourning. 

_ “Why would he do that to himself?” _

_ Don’t pretend like you don’t know. _

He hopes he trends on Twitter. He hopes his mom never finds out. He hopes his death is as plastic as the rest of his life seems to be. He doesn’t want anybody he loves there. They don’t deserve to see what will unfold. Only let in the people who didn’t care. Let them tear at his body and look at the bruising around his neck, let them take selfies with his unmoving, plastic smile, let them cut off pieces of his clothes and take them home with them for a hundred dollars a piece. Let his last moments be for monetary gain. Show the world how selfish it is, let it look in the mirror one last time. They will see nothing, like the robots in Westworld.

_ “That doesn’t look like anything to me.” _

There’s a faint ringing in the back of his head. It’s an alarm. The alarm is telling him that it’s time to get out of the house and show the world that he’s in New York City. He doesn’t need his agent to tell him that he needs to be seen anymore. He knows when he needs to be seen by the public eye, he’s been conditioned. Like Pavlov’s dogs. 

He goes to a coffee shop on Lexington Avenue and 27th street. He buys a macchiato. He gets distracted halfway through when he sees his reflection in the window, tired and sad. Bloodshot. 

It looks so much like him that he wants to cry. It looks like the old him. He thought he fixed the old him. The old him only existed in photographs. The old him is moving away from the window, and everything snaps into place.

“Eddie! Wait!” Macchiato be damned, he has a reflection to catch. 

“Eddie, please!” 

He catches him. Their eyes meet. He’s looking in a mirror and he doesn’t want to look away, for once. This is the only mirror in the world that shows him a reflection of himself that he actually wants to look at. 

He was supposed to be leaving New York on a plane at the same time that the manager of a Chinese restaurant took a picture of him. His agent is royally pissed at him the next morning. He doesn’t give a shit. He’s eighteen again and there’s nothing she can do about it. 

He calls Eddie ten times the next morning, spaced five minutes apart. He can’t remember how busy normal people are. He expects that if he keeps calling, eventually Eddie will pick up when he has a spare minute. 

_ “What in the actual fuck, Richard?”  _ Eddie sounds good over the phone, as good as he did last night. His voice is deeper and older and gives Richie a high every time he hears it.

“How are you, Spaghetti-O?”

_ “I will kill you.” _

_ _ “Did you just wake up? I remember you were always so grumpy in the morning.” He hears Eddie suck in a sharp breath on the other end of the line.

_ “Don’t do that. I’ve actually been driving someone in my cab for the past hour, and she was convinced that I must have a family emergency when she saw the same person call me ten fucking times. She was almost begging me to answer the phone by the sixth time. I had to explain that I’m friends with a fucking moron.” _

_ _ “You flatter me, Eds.”

_ “Did you call me for a reason, dipshit?” _

“To hear your voice. Also, to invite you out to dinner.”

_ “I think I’m having deja vu.” _

_ _ “Nope. Just miss you, s’all.”

_ “Don’t do that.”  _ He repeats, and Richie wonders if it’s code for something. He likes to pretend he’s stupid, like he doesn’t know that Eddie is trying to keep him at a distance. If he pretends, it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts when you pretend. Not if you’re good at it. Richie is so good at it that they pay him money to pretend. A  _ lot  _ of money. 

“I’m lonely.” He tells Eddie when he doesn’t respond to his dinner invitation. He knows Eddie is lonely too. He knows this is a bad idea. He floats on an island filled with lonely people and it never ends well. Loneliness doesn’t cure loneliness.

_ “Where would you like to go?” _

_ _ “My place? Well, it’s not really  _ my  _ place. I’m renting it. It’s very expensive. You’ll like it.”

_ “I don’t like expensive.” _

_ _ “I could rent a cardboard box from a homeless guy, if you’d prefer that? I think the paps would find me, though. Can you imagine the covers of the magazines?” He wonders if Eddie has seen him on the covers. He wonders if he saw the overdose. He never reached out to him. Richie doesn’t know if he would have wanted him to.

_ “Text me your address. I’ll order pizza to be delivered. Think of it as me paying you back for last night.” _

_ _ “Edward, I don’t need you to pay me back. Pizza is like buying a pack of gum.”

_ “I don’t know how much the pizza costs in California, but you’re in for a real shock if you buy pizza here.” _

_ _ “I’ll text you the address. Text me what you like on your pizza. Meet me at 5 and do  _ not  _ try to pay me back.”

Eddie hangs up unexpectedly. Richie stares at the phone like he’s never seen it before in his life. The smile on his face is puncturing through his cheeks so violently that he must be bleeding. He looks in the mirror for only a second to check. He finds exactly what he was terrified to find: the smile reaches his eyes.

When he first met Eddie, he was scared of him. He was scared because he’d never  _ wanted  _ something so badly in his life. He wanted to talk to him, to breathe next to him, to kiss him. He wanted to spill his guts and tell him everything he’d been hiding for so long. He lets himself think about their relationship, sometimes, usually when he’s wearing his glasses. The pressure on the bridge of his nose reminds him of high school, of laughter and love and the first good friends he’d ever had in his life. The last good friends. Now all he has left of that is Stan and Bill, and Bill wouldn’t have stuck around if he wasn’t married to Stan. He thinks about Ben and Bev and Mike, sometimes. He might have been invited to Bev and Ben’s wedding, maybe. He didn’t go. He didn’t want to ruin it for them.

When he became famous, he couldn’t enjoy things anymore. Hollywood and celebrity life robbed him of everything he thought existed no matter what happened. If he attended a friends wedding nobody would stop talking to him, people would take pictures of him outright, they’d ask for autographs, they’d hug him without warning. Inviting him to a wedding is like hiring a clown for your child's birthday party. He’s the entertainment. He’s always on, like a neon sign on the front of a 24/7 convenience store. Never closed. 

It’s the loneliest existence anyone could have, ironically. Everything is given to him, everything is stolen from him. When there’s nowhere left to go, people offer him substances in place of actually talking to him.

_ “You’re bumming me out. Here, take this.” _

They’d hand him drugs, alcohol, sex. Whatever it takes. He doesn’t blame them, they all have their own problems. Nobody wants to talk about ‘important things’ for too long. It will remind them of somebody they’d rather forget. Whatever it takes to forget.

“Richie?” 

Stan’s voice has changed since they were kids, but not much. He still sounds uptight and stressed out whenever he talks. He rounds the corner to find Stan in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water.

“Hey, Stan.”

“Richie. Hey.”

“What are you still doing here? In New York, I mean.”

“You’re wearing your glasses.” Richie isn’t sure why Stan is smiling, maybe he thinks the glasses look stupid, too. “I, um. When Bill and I realized you weren’t coming to the airport I decided to stay here. You can’t just cancel on people last minute.”

“I know.”

“Bill said you seemed…” Richie closes his eyes against the unspoken words. It’s so unfair. It was one time, almost eight years ago. 

“Stan.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. Are you excited about the premiere?” 

Richie and Bill had been promoting their new dark comedy together. It was phenomenal. Richie loved learning about the magic of writing from Bill, even though Bill had been reluctant to teach him. He’s thankful that Stan married him, because they would have never formed their odd, off-balance, sort-of friendship. 

“I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

“What if people don’t like it? We worked so hard on it, Stan.”

“Do you like it?”

Stan always asks things like that. He lives so close to the limelight, but just far enough away that he doesn’t really understand how it works. He thinks that people like Richie actually get to make decisions for themselves.

“It doesn’t matter if I like it.”

“Of course it does.”

Stan is good to him, even when he shouldn’t be. Sometimes he wonders how he’s so broken inside when he has good friends like Bill and Stan. He should be happy, but he can’t be. The harder he pushes it, the further from happy he gets.

“Stan, do you want to have a night in and eat pizza tonight?”

“Why haven’t you flown home, Richie?”

“Agree to pizza and I’ll tell you why.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll stay in and eat pizza with you. Why haven’t you flown home?”

“Because you, me, and Eddie Kaspbrak are going to eat pizza and watch Netflix tonight.”

Stan looks surprised, for a brief moment. He waits to see if Richie is serious. He narrows his eyes. Richie narrows them back. He knows how Stan feels about his relationship with Eddie. There’d been a divorce and Richie had gotten custody of Stan, which didn’t seem fair because Eddie had ended up with nothing. It wasn’t because of Richie, though. Eddie didn’t want anything but a new life after they broke up. He’d left everybody behind. 

“Richie, what are you doing?”

“Stan. Don’t pretend like you don’t miss him. He’s...married. There’s nothing going on. It just feels so good to be around someone who knew me before I got famous.”

“I knew you before you were famous.”

“It’s different, though.”

“You mean it’s good to be around someone who hasn’t had to see the shit you’ve gone through these last fifteen years. He skipped out on the hard part.”

“I’m better now, Stan.”

“Maybe, but not really. I’m worried about you. Bill is too.”

“Please don’t be. I haven’t done anything since that night, I swear to god.”

“We’re not just worried about drugs. You’re…” Stan doesn’t know how to explain that Richie seems like he’s far away, all the time. Richie doesn’t know how to explain it, either. He’s there but he’s not there. He’s floating away.

“I’m okay.”

Stan looks like he wants to shake his head, but he doesn’t. He stares at him like he always does, always has. In high school, he was the one to figure out that him and Eddie loved each other. He was the one to figure out that his mom was abusing him. He was the one to figure out that Richie didn’t feel like he could fit in anywhere. Stan could always figure him out, even when Eddie couldn’t. 

Stan shows up twenty minutes early, which isn’t surprising at all. Richie makes him sit on the couch and puts a soda in his hand because he can’t have him standing there like a creep when Eddie walks in. 

“Aren’t you going to take off your glasses?” Richie’s hands twitch by his sides. He wants to take them off so badly.

“He says I looked like Buddy Holly when I wore them.” Stan tilts his head and observes them, large and intense, like two clocks sitting side by side.

“He’s right, you do. I like them on you. I know why you don’t wear them anymore, but...I like them.” He shrugs and sips on the soda. They talk about Bill and how annoyed he is at Richie for stealing his husband for another day. He acts like Stan doesn’t follow him around like a puppy dog nearly all the time. Richie texts him an apology, anyway. 

There’s an intensity through the air when a knock sounds on the door. It’s terrifying but nice, it keeps him anchored to the ground. His brain fits back into its space inside his head for the first time since last night. Before last night it had been years since he felt like he was back on the ground.

“Come in.” Stan finally says because Richie stopped moving. 

The door opens to reveal Eddie. Richie’s brain is spinning because he just saw him yesterday but it feels like the first time all over again. He had been in sixth grade when some pint-sized kid walked over to him and told him off for his crass joke. He was the angriest, most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Holy shit. Stanley Uris?” Stan is glowing from giddiness. It’s cute, how he pretended like he wasn’t completely over the moon to eat pizza and watch movies with his childhood friend. 

“It’s been so long, wow.” They’re hugging and Richie throws himself on top of them. They all laugh and it feels so good. Chains that he hadn’t realized were wrapped around him crumble and fall apart. 

“You’re wearing your glasses.” Richie’s hands twitch again. He pushes the glasses back against his face. He can see his reflection in Eddie’s eyes and it scares him. He’s not supposed to let people see him in his glasses. He gives a slow, tight nod.

“I love them. Seriously, just like Buddy Holly.” They sing the song again and Stan looks at them with a funny expression on his face. It feels like old times. When Eddie is with him all of his problems float away, the years in between them are deleted, like all of those mistakes were never made.

Richie refuses to let them watch anything he’s in, which cancels out a good number of comedies. They settle on “Game Night” with Jason Bateman and Rachel McAdams, which Richie and Eddie have never seen. Stan swears up and down that it was the funniest movie he’d ever watched, and for a man like Stanley Uris, that is quite a bit of praise. 

Laughter echoes through the house, mostly from Stan. All of the shushing comes from Stan, too, just like the good ol’ days. Richie and Eddie keep whispering things to each other about the movie, about Stan, about their lives. He wonders what he would look like in the mirror right now. Would he look like the Little Richie in all the photos his mom sent? The thought scares him. He doesn’t want to look like that anymore.  _ They  _ don’t want him to look like that anymore, the intangible  _ they _ . 

“Richie?” He looks at his old friend whose eyes haven’t aged a day. They still look at him, big and brown, expecting something from him. He flashes him a soft smile, the kind that exists for Eddie Kaspbrak and Eddie Kaspbrak only. There’s a distance between them that used to not be there. Part of it is, of course, from the break-up and being apart for fifteen years. There’s another part, though. A doorstop wedged between them, heavy and unsettling. Fifteen years is a long time, and a lot can happen.

If he could remove himself from the moment and look at them from the view of a passerby, he might be able to see it- the brokeness. They look like digital clocks that have turned back on after the power went out. They blink at each other, bold red letters reading the time that their power went out. If he was looking at the situation from third-person view, he would know that their clocks both went out fifteen years ago, and they haven’t been reset since.

Eddie is just as broken as he is. Here in his living room, he snakes an arm around his shoulders. It doesn’t have to be a romantic gesture, just a friendly one. Old pals, that’s all. Eddie settles against the space, ribcages touching through thin cotton shirts. They breathe steadily, Eddie’s ring glows in the light from the movie. A normalcy falls over the room, plastic rattles in Richie’s throat as he takes a long breath in, the likes of which his lungs haven’t seen in years. 

Even a broken clock is right twice a day.


	3. haunted by the ghost of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lets himself consider, for a moment, if there’s an afterlife, if there’s something beyond being eaten by maggots and turning to dust. For the longest time he viewed the sky like a lid on top of the earth. How stupidly ingenuous of him. How self-centered. He never considered that if someone tilted the earth upside-down like a snowglobe he’d rocket through the sky like a bullet through air, spilt out into the liquidy blackness of space. It’s not a lid. It’s a doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really prefer writing from Eddie's perspective for this story, which is funny because I was all about Richie last time. Anyway, this is going swimmingly and I'm very proud of this chapter, too!

How did he end up here? 

Why did he auction off his life in bits and pieces until there was nothing left?

Why did he put the only real thing he had ever felt into a cardboard box on a street corner with a sign taped to it that read “FREE”?

These were the questions Eddie had expertly avoided for years, ducking over and under and driving his cab straight through them. If he answered them, he’d be admitting something utterly terrifying and deeply disturbing. Something was innately wrong with him.

Pieces of his father existed in him, buried under the surface of what his mother had created. If we don’t confront anything, we don’t feel anything._ If we don’t confront anything, we don’t feel anything. _

Finding who he is feels like trying to grab onto objects that are being sucked up into a tornado. His mom was gray and huge and all-consuming, sucking up every piece of him and spitting it back onto the ground until it was unrecognizable. He couldn’t build up enough pieces of himself to stand on his own two legs and walk away from her. 

When he pictures himself as a kid, he’s on fire. The fire burns from inside of him until it ignites on the outside, too. Hot and fiery, too hot to touch. If no one could touch him, no one could steal anything from him. He never considered that there would come a day when someone would want to touch him, not for the purpose of stealing from him, but to simply hold him. Someone would want to touch him even if they were burned.

_ “Disgusting.” _

_ “Dangerous.” _

_ “Sick.” _

He believed her. All those years of building himself up from the scraps that she left behind, and he let her sink into his head. 

_ “They say that boys who grow up without fathers are more prone to this illness. I should’ve been watching you closer, I should’ve kept you away from that boy.” _

Somewhere inside of him, he loved his father. Sonia knew it and used it against him. She took the few memories that he had and weaponized them, beat him down with it until he felt like a complete and utter disappointment. 

_ “Your dad would be so disappointed.” _

He can’t say if that’s true or not. She was the only one, the _ only _one who could tell him if that was true. She stole any semblance of a father he had in his life. She hired him a nurse and had him marry her so there would always be someone to tell him what to do. Eddie didn’t have to think for himself, ever. Easier, but not better. 

Sometimes, when he’s driving, he sees a man sitting on a bus stop bench and almost crashes the car. For a split second, he’s not in his cab anymore, he’s bouncing on the knee of a man who looks just like him. Up and down, giggles and smiles. A deep voice that tells him he loves him. 

Sonia won’t let him see any pictures of his dad. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t need to see them to know how much he looks like him. He catches it in the mirror, before his eyes come into focus. For a microscopic moment, he’s Frank Kaspbrak. Handsome, charismatic Frank Kaspbrak. 

_ He’d be so disappointed. _

Would he be happy, seeing Eddie’s life now? Married to an abusive woman he doesn’t love, walking through life like he’s on a treadmill. Keep moving but don’t go anywhere. He really _ is _the mirror image of his dad. Myra is Sonia, Eddie is Frank. This is the only chance Frank has to complete his life, to run its course. Through Eddie. All things are possible through Eddie.

“Where have you been?” He’s not sure who is asking the question, Myra or Sonia. They blend together like two halves of a person. 

“I went out with my friends.”

“What friends? You don’t have any friends.” She, Myra, says it before she can stop herself, before she realizes the kind of picture that sentence paints of their relationship. It paints a dark, lonely picture.

“I _ have _ friends.” Myra stiffens and backtracks.

“What friends did you go out with? I’d love to meet them.”

“No. You wouldn’t.”

He thinks of her watching Richie on the television. _ “I’ve always thought he seemed so crass.” _She doesn’t even know the half of it, he hides 50% of his humor when he’s in the public eye. Eddie had just assumed he had grown older and grown out of his crude demeanor. Over pizza and a movie, he learned Richie had only improved his manners by a fraction.

“Are you ashamed of me?”

“No, Myra.”

“What are you thinking about, Eddie?”

“Nothing, dear.”

Richie leaves New York City for California, and both of their lives return to normal. Half-normal. The kind of normal that they’ve both been existing in their whole lives. 

Eddie is thankful. With Richie around, he was beginning to think. Nothing good ever comes from Eddie thinking. His conscience is absorbed by the phantom pair of eyes, stuffed away into the corner of his mind. He never texts Richie, and Richie never texts him. It’s been two months.

Normal. Easier. Easier but not better. He doesn’t need better, nobody has a perfect life. He’s a cab driver, he couldn’t count the amount of tragedies he’s seen unfold in his backseat, small and large scale. He’d take easier over better any day. Thinking complicates things, tears open the unused muscle in his brain. He’s been over this all before.

It’s different this time around, though, because he missed something. It was what Sonia spent so long trying to fix the first time. Richie got into his head again two months ago and tore the muscle apart. He has a bleed in his brain that he hasn’t noticed, flowing freely throughout his body. It’s irreparable, and it’s about to get a lot worse.

There’s a conversation flowing through his house that he’s meant to be a part of. They’re talking to him, but as long as he nods and pretends to listen they won’t notice that he has no idea what’s going on. There’s only three things that they could be talking about: sickness, work, or children. Sonia wants them to have children so badly, Myra pretends like they’ve been trying. They never have. He watches them talk, not hearing the words they’re saying. They look so much alike it makes him sick. Don’t tell them that or he’ll be on bedrest for a year. _ Bedrest. _ Somewhere in his distant memory, machines beep and a man coughs. Esophageal cancer, eating him from the inside out. _ Beep, beep, beep. _He wasn’t there when he died. Blood starts to flow steadily from his eyes, coming from the brain bleed Richie had caused. 

“What do you think, Frank?” The two halves move in slow motion, hands flying to their mouths at the same time. Mirrors. Somehow, they knew the gravity that mistake held before Eddie knew. “I’m sorry. I meant, ‘Eddie’.”

“I’m not _ dad. _” Blood pours from his mouth, dribbling onto the ground. Nobody asks him if he’s okay.

_ “Are you okay? Frank! Tell me you’re okay. Frank! Frank, please. Please.” _

Blood poured from his mouth, too, into the trash can next to the hospital bed. Stage 4 esophageal cancer. He was okay, but not for long. The blood poured from him like he was a faucet, down his face, onto the ground, into the trash can. Then he died. Everyone will be eaten by maggots, in the end, even Frank.

“I know you’re not, sweetie. It’s just, sometimes you look so much like him.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? I look so much like him, but I’m not him, am I?” If he were in front of a mirror right now, the reflection of himself would look at him mournfully. 

_ I’m sorry. I don’t think I can carry your life for you, anymore. _

The pin drops. Sonia doesn’t know what to say. Her twin doesn’t either. Like a shadow, Myra gapes at him in the same manner Sonia looks at him. He can almost hear the prison closing in on him again. He has to get out before they can turn the key. 

He drives to his mother's house because he knows that they’ll stay at Myra’s apartment and talk about him for hours. They’ll wait for him to come back, like he always does. He’s predictable, conditioned.

Her key is hidden on top of the door frame so nobody will find it. It’s security theatre, as most things are with her. Fake safe is just as good as real safe.

The door of her house creaks open steadily. It’s not the house he grew up in, it’s the house Sonia had moved into a few hours outside of the city, to be close to him. Despite being a different house, it feels the same way. The air inside is musty and smells like her, like decaying bodies. Sometimes, he feels like she’s a walking corpse. The scent of her house emulates that idea. 

He moves through the living room, eyes trained to the ceiling. He’s not sure where to find the ladder to the attic because it’s been so long since he’s visited her. When he enters the hallway, he comes face-to-face with the outlined panel of shiny, white wood. A cord dangles from it. His breath stills and for a brief moment he doubts the urge that had pushed him to drive out here. He looks around the skinny hallway, like someone will be standing there to make his decision for him. Nobody is there. He blinks, and the all-knowing, ever-permanent eyes are looking at him from behind their glasses. They still can’t speak, but Eddie knows what they’re saying.

_ “Do what makes you happy.” _

He pulls the cord.

The ladder comes tumbling down and nearly punches his left cheek, but he manages to duck out of the way before he really _ does _have an injury to worry about. When he gets up into the attic, the gray air is decorated with little white specks of dust, like snow. There’s hardly any light and there’s even less room. The attic is merely the inside of a camping tent, maybe smaller.

His hands come down on an old blue box with cracks in the lid. It has nothing but Christmas ornaments inside so he shoves it away. He just wants to _ see _him. He wants to know that they really are separate people.

There’s a little brown box in the corner. It’s wooden and flat with a few yellow flowers on the lid and lots of knicks in the sides. There’s a golden latch that takes a bit of concentration to open but once Eddie undoes it, it’s clear that he’s found what he came for. His lower half is still standing on the ladder, his upper half leaning forward to peer into the box before him. 

The first picture he takes out sends a searing pain through his chest. He’s crying before he even has a chance to closely study the picture, has to set it down and dab at his eyes with the collar of his shirt, first. He retrieves it from the pile and focuses.

They’re in front of the garden that Eddie remembers from their old home. Sonia had abandoned it, let weeds grow through it and the bricks surrounding it dilapidated and fell apart. In this picture, though, life bursts through it in a flurry of yellows and pinks. Frank is sitting on top of the short stack of bricks, knees level with the pocket on his button-up shirt, a pen peeking over the ledge of it. He’s making eye contact with the camera, his elbow resting on his knee to prop up his smiling face. He seems to be emulating little Eddie, who’s sitting next to him in the same manner, or maybe it’s the other way around. They look nearly identical, but they’re not the same person. They’re different, two peas in a pod, not two sides of a mirror. 

There’s other pictures in the box, from Eddie’s birthday or his first Christmas. They all include Frank. There’s a few of him with his sister, Darcy, who died only two years after Frank did. Vanished. No trace of the Kaspbrak’s anywhere, only Eddie. 

He wonders if his mom meant to show these to him, at some point. Maybe she hoped that when she died Eddie would find them and she wouldn’t have to show them to him herself. _ If we don’t confront anything, we don’t feel anything. _

He’s halfway through the box when his eyes land on a piece of paper that looks out of place among all the photographs. It’s folded up into the size of a business card, but Eddie can see that there’s pen ink on the other side of it.

It’s addressed to him. His heart stops in his chest and he thinks, for a moment, that this would be an awfully bad place to faint. He wavers on the ladder but keeps his balance, allowing himself to read the letter.

_ Eddie, _

_ My little man. My mini-me. My pride, my joy. If you’re reading this, I’m so sorry. I hope your mother had the good conscience to not give this to you until you’re older, when the wound has closed up a little. _

_ I lost my own dad at a young age, due to a heart attack. There was this awful feeling that came with that, being the kid without a dad. I was old enough to remember him, but not very well. It felt like I was missing out on this magical piece of life that the rest of the world got to have. Everybody but Frank had a father and I assumed the universe was out to get me. Sometimes I feel like it still is because it gave me you and took you away so quickly. _

_ I didn’t know how to be a dad, Eddie, because I never had one myself. I was so scared when you were born because you were so, so beautiful. You were tiny but you had these huge eyes, even when you could barely open them. I thought I would break you. _

_ We learned, together. You and me. Your mother probably would have preferred it if I didn’t try at all. I wanted to, though. I wanted to be a good father for you. I messed up and snapped at you when I had a bad day, on occasion. Sometimes you skinned your knee on my watch. I wasn’t perfect. I’m still not. Just yesterday I put orange juice in your cereal instead of milk. But you are so forgiving, Eddie. I love and hate that about you, because I’m like that too. It’s so beautiful, that you forgive so easily, but it’s also the reason I’m writing this letter. _

_ The doctors told me I have five months, at most. I’m so sorry, Eddie. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want you to be the kid without a dad. _

_ I made a mistake, son. I didn’t think about this possibility, that the woman I picked to marry would be the only person you’d have to grow up with if something happened to me. Don’t get me wrong, your mother is not a bad person. But, we both know how she is. She gets scared and she’s too protective. She’s just scared to lose us. I should have thought about you, Eddie. I was only thinking about myself, about what I had to hide. _

_ They say that boys who grow up without fathers are more prone to this illness. I don’t mean the cancer, Eddie. I don’t even know if it’s true, but it’s what my mother told me. I wanted to get better. I wanted to be a good dad for you. _

_ I was too naive to realize that it didn’t matter who I married, as long as they were good to you. I knew I wanted a child more than anything. So, I married a woman, because she would have the motherly instincts that two men wouldn’t. I love your mother, Eddie, but not in the way I should. I let her and everybody else in the world make my choices for me, because I couldn’t trust myself to make them. Now I’m 29 years old, and I’m dying. You have no idea how badly I wanted to be here to see you graduate, and to see you grow until you’re taller than me. I can’t stop thinking about all the things that I will miss, every time you smile at me. More importantly, I can’t stop thinking about the things I’ve already missed. I wish I had spent every moment with you when I could. I wish I had let myself be happy. I wish I hadn’t let the world make choices for me, because now it’s making one last, final choice, and I’ve realized that everything in my life was decided for me. It’s too late for me, but not for you. _

_ I don’t know what you need, and your mother doesn’t either. Nobody can know what you need but yourself. I wish I had known that. Whatever it is you need, go do that. Please, don’t let your mother make decisions for you. Get married if you want to, have kids if you want to, travel the world if you want to. _

_ Whatever you do, my darling boy, I will be happy for you. Whatever you want, I will be proud of you. Make your own choices, build your own life, and live it as best as you can. I am so sorry I won’t be there to see the amazing life I know you will have. If there is an afterlife, I will never stop watching over you. Wave at me, sometime. I’ll wave back if I can. I love you. _

_ Your father, _

_ Frank Edward Kaspbrak _

By the time Eddie gets outside, he’s sobbing and clutching the letter to his chest. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he just knows that he can’t stand the smell and size of that awful house anymore. His shoes hit the green grass of the lawn and he throws himself down on it. The sun has already set, the stars have come out to twinkle. He can’t see them very well from his house, but from here, just a few hours outside of the city, they shine down on him fiercely. Tears stream down the sides of his face, running over his ears and through his hair, making their way to the ground. The earth presses up against his back, like it’s trying to raise him up to meet the sky. He lets himself consider, for a moment, if there’s an afterlife, if there’s something beyond being eaten by maggots and turning to dust. For the longest time he viewed the sky like a lid on top of the earth. How stupidly ingenuous of him. How self-centered. He never considered that if someone tilted the earth upside-down like a snowglobe he’d rocket through the sky like a bullet through air, spilt out into the liquidy blackness of space. It’s not a lid. It’s a doorway.

He still doesn’t know if there is an afterlife, but he raises a small, shaky hand and gives the sky a wave. A shooting star passes by. It’s enough for him.


	4. i had all and then most of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benverly yay!!! I forgot to post this last night so I didn't get to wake up to kudos and now I'm sad :( Also, I've realized it may not be entirely clear but because this is 15 years later it takes place ~2008, which is why he has a Blackberry.

Most of the time Eddie thinks there’s no use in dwelling on the past. He’s made those choices, their inevitable consequences came, and now he’s moved on. Now, though, sitting in a small diner he must have driven by thousands of times but never eaten at, he can’t stop himself from dwelling on the past. 

There’s a black coffee and cranberry Turkey sandwich in front of him, half eaten. The food isn’t terrible, but it’s nothing spectacular. The most spectacular thing about it is that this is a small victory for Eddie, this moment. Making a choice, even a small one, is a huge step for him. He’d asked Myra if they could have a meal here hundreds of times, but she’d claimed it was too pedestrian for them. He hopes she can feel the middle finger he’s giving her right now.

Both Myra and Sonia must be losing their shit. Last night, in a complete moment of insanity, he’d taken his fancy little orange Blackberry phone and shut it completely off, for the first time since he purchased it. That, of course, sounds wild, but it’s true. He’d been so terrified of Myra trying to call him when he turned it off and screaming at him for ignoring her that he never did. So yes, they must be losing their shit right now. At the time he had turned it off he had 6 missed calls from Sonia and Myra each. Not much, but you see, they had him on a tight leash. He never strayed for long, not until now. 

The night was spent in a cute little hotel near his mother's house. His second purchase was the most mediocre room service he’d ever had. His third was a few changes of clothes. His fourth was a plane ticket to Chicago.

Then, he’d driven the two hours back to NYC and stopped in this tiny diner. He studies the flyers on the cork board across the room. They list babysitters, lost dogs, events. None of them reassure him. None of them say in big font “YOU’RE MAKING THE RIGHT CHOICE”. Of course not, that would be stupid. Something inside Eddie craves that validation, though. He needs somebody to tell him he’s not absolutely crazy, and he knows that this is exactly the kind of thing that he needs to learn to live without. 

The flyers waver in the air conditioning, making a nails on chalkboard kind of noise. They will not give him an answer and he doesn’t need one, anyway. As much as Eddie doesn’t like to dwell on the past, it is the only thing in this world that could give him an answer on whether or not he’s making the right choice.

Why had him and Richie broken up fifteen years ago? He’d been so incredibly happy. They had dated for several months, maybe six or seven. They had done everything together when they could. They held hands under blankets, kissed in the safety of his room, and had the best (and only) sex Eddie had ever had, in the dark. They were showing no signs of slowing down or stopping, only gaining momentum and adoration every single day. They were planning on attending the same college, rooming in the same dorm. Eddie was so, so happy and he wanted to share it with the world. So, he told his mother.

Eddie couldn’t even recall now what she had said to him back then, but the days following were a blur of tears and self-hatred and (for a brief few moments) suicidal thoughts. She had broken him down into a shell of the person Richie had built him up to be. 

And Richie, fucking _ Richie _. He had loved Eddie so much, so well. He knew something was wrong and tried to pry him open and get the answers out of him, but the damage had been done. Eddie had shut like the claws of a bear trap, and Sonia was keeping watch to make sure he didn’t open again. So he had yelled and cried and pushed Richie out of his room. He changed which college he was going to attend. He cut off all contact with the losers. He closed his eyes and pretended that the first 18 years of his life never happened. 

Sonia was happy to have her little, malleable boy back. She turned him into an upstanding gentleman and husband to a good woman who could keep him under control. She turned him into an Eddie puppet. 

He had destroyed his life single-handedly to make her happy.

He turned on his phone and ignored the flood of notifications that instantly popped up. The phone rang and rang and rang and Eddie almost hung up and forgot this whole stupid tirade he had gone on. But then:

_ “Eds, oh my god, hey! Ah, shit. I’m sorry I haven’t called. I just figured I’d wait for you to call and then you never did so I… well, it doesn’t matter. How are you?” _

“I’m fucking awful, Rich.” He hears his voice spill into the quiet of the diner for the first time and realizes it sounds much more tearful than he had intended it to.

_ “Woah. Hey, is everything alright?” _There’s this weird hesitation in his voice, like he wants to say more or ask a different question but is holding back. He laughs to himself at that- Richie Tozier, holding back. 

“I’m so dumb. I’m so, so fucking stupid. I think I’m losing my mind. No, I’ve already lost my mind because I let my mom take it from me. I let her take _ you _ from me. And then I let her convince me to marry a fucking _ woman _and I’ve been so scared for so long and I’m tired of it.”

_ “Eddie. I…” _

“I’m getting a divorce.”

_ “You are? That’s… that’s good news. I mean, I _ am _ a little biased.” _ Eddie wants to ask what that means, but he thinks he already knows and his heart warms at the thought. _ “Do you have somewhere to go? I can buy you a hotel room for as long as you need, it’s really no problem.” _

“I already bought a plane ticket to Chicago. It’s where Bev and Ben live. I found her number online- she runs a whole fashion blog, can you believe that?- and told her everything and… and she’s going to let me stay with her for awhile. I already filed for the divorce. She can take the apartment and all the furniture and all of my clothes. I don’t want any of it.” Richie lets out a soft huff. Eddie swears he can feel the breath warm the edges of his ear. 

_ “They’ll take good care of you, Eds. Let me send you some money so you can get yourself some things.” _

“Richie, I don’t need your money. I’ll be just fine.”

_ “Fine. I guess I’ll just spend it on a plane ticket to Chicago instead.” _

“What? No, that’s ridiculous. I’m sure you’re very busy with work. I don’t need-”

_ “I don’t give a shit what you need. This is what I need. And Bill and Stan... and Mike, who I’m sure I can get ahold of.” _ This is the Richie that he’s always known, the big hotshot who pretends that he doesn’t care about his friends but is really constantly looking out for them. He knows he _ needs _Richie right now, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it. Richie knows he needs the only support system he has left. 

“Thanks, ‘Chee.” 

_ “Gee-sus! Never thought I’d hear that nickname again. Dunno if I ever told you, but that one is my favorite.” _ He pauses, and if Eddie closes his eyes he can see the beaming smile Richie is wearing. _ “Hey, you’re going to be okay. We’ve got you.” _

“Thank you. It… means a lot. I’ll call you when I get to Chicago, okay? Talk to you later, _ ‘Chee. _” Richie giggles, boyish and sweet.

_ “If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow I’m going to call you 90 times a minute. I can’t wait to hear your voice again. Tell the Hanscoms I said hello.” _

Eddie doesn’t really know what he was expecting. 18-year-old Beverly with a cigarette in one hand and walkman in the other? Maybe. He definitely wasn’t expecting a well dressed woman with a somewhat… _ eccentric _ style and a fucking _ child _in her arms. 

“Eddie! Eddie Kaspbrak, oh wow!” She throws her arms around him the moment she sees him enter the baggage claim area. Eddie is enveloped into a familiar warm hug that just happens to have a tiny little boy wedged in the middle.

“Beverly! You look… oh my gosh. You’re just…”

“Grown up?” She says with a laugh. “You too, Eddie. Gosh, I knew it was you the second I saw you but you still look so… different.”

“Good different?”

“Absolutely. Oh! This is Ollie!” She hoists the kid in her arms further onto her hip and tells him to say hello. The shy little guy- maybe five, at most- turns his big green eyes and looks up at Eddie with a soft _ ‘hello’. _

“Ollie? I love that name. Hey, little man. How are you?” Ollie doesn’t answer this time, though, and opts to stuff his face back into the divet between Bev’s head and shoulder. 

“Sorry, it’s a little past his bedtime. He’s one of those kids that needs his beauty rest.” 

Eddie is tired, also. It’s only 9 o’clock at night in Chicago, but the anxiety is eating away at him, exhausting him. With Bev here, he relaxes a little, happy to be with people who genuinely care about and love him. He’s surprised to find that she’s a mother. Bev just never struck him as the kind of person who’d want to have kids. She talks about Ollie with this glow in her eyes that Eddie has only seen when she talked about Ben as a kid and he thinks that she might just be the best mother in the world. 

Their house is large and modern, from what Eddie can see in the dark. According to Beverly, Ben is an architect now, and it shows through his taste in houses. It’s beautiful, but not over the top, with a wide lawn and flat roof. Bev leads him upstairs and shows him their guest room before excusing herself to tuck Ollie into bed. He goes about unpacking his three new shirts, two new pairs of pants, and one new pair of shoes into their individual places in the room. The way his heart is beating in his ears reminds him a lot of how he felt going off to college with none of his old friends and no experience being on his own. He can hear Ben’s voice booming downstairs, reminding him that this time around, he has plenty of people who genuinely love and care about him. 

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened?” They’re all standing downstairs with bottles of peach smirnoff and quiet voices as to not wake Ollie up. They’d all hugged and laughed about some old memories for awhile, enjoying the company they’d missed for so long. Ben had lost a lot of the baby weight he’d maintained throughout high school and shot off into the success of being America’s best architect. He was gone from the home often, but Bev didn’t mind as long as he always came back for the important stuff. Bev was successful, too, in the fashion industry. Taking in her outfit, Eddie could understand exactly why she was so successful. They were a power couple, and so, so utterly in love even 15 years later. Eddie wished he had attended their wedding, but Myra would have never let him travel back then. 

The kitchen was the smallest portion of the house to make space for the large dining and living room on either side of it. It was beautiful, nonetheless, with four nice crystal covered hanging lights above the island they all circled around. Eddie feels a tad embarrassed standing there with them in his grey polo and black slacks, surrounded by beautiful people and beautiful scenery. 

“It’s a long story…” He trails off, not even knowing where to begin. Where did this all begin? Did they know anything about him at all?

He starts with how the break-up with Richie had gone, explaining how his mother manipulated and berated him until he finally broke it off with the first person he bared his whole soul to and still loved him. He tells them how his mother convinced him to marry Myra, who was just as abusive and manipulative as her. He tearfully recounts seeing Richie in the coffee shop, because that was _ really _where this all started. They all chatter for awhile about that, because they haven’t heard from Richie in years aside from when he declined their wedding invitation. Eddie explains that they may be seeing a lot more of him very, very soon. Lastly, he tells them about the letter, even pulls it out of his pocket and lets them read it. They all tear up a bit, even Bev, as they pass around the worn and wrinkled letter.

“That’s… one hell of an omen, man.” Ben says, running his hand through short brown hair. Eddie is amazed at how familiar this all feels, like time never passed them by, like they aren’t married with a kid upstairs and Eddie isn’t a grown adult seeking shelter in their home. They feel like teenagers gathered around their table in the cafeteria. 

“That’s when I searched up Bev’s name online. I couldn’t stay there and I had literally nowhere else to go. I just… I’m sorry, you guys. I’ll figure out what to do eventually. I just- I need a moment to get myself together.”

Bev doesn’t hesitate to press a kiss to his cheek and wrap her arms around him once more. The fiery red locks brush against his nose and he pushes closer to them, trying not to cry at the warmth of the embrace. Another pair of arms comes down around him and he thinks, briefly, that this is the most he’s been hugged in years. Aside from when he and Richie ran into each other, because of course, that’s just how Richie is. Sweet and warm and ridiculously friendly. He misses him more right now than he ever has in the past fifteen years. 

“Oh shit, I promised Richie I’d call when I got in. It’s getting late, anyway, you two are probably tired.” Bev smiles at him in a funny way, but he doesn’t question it. They exchange hugs and a few more laughs before they disappear into their bedroom, and Eddie slips out the front door. He paces on the well-maintained grass a few times before pressing the phone to his ear. 

_ “Hey, Eds! I was beginning to worry. I was about to check the news to see if any planes went down.” _Eddie finds himself laughing at that more than he should, but he can’t help it. It feels so good to laugh again. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, I was getting settled in with Bev and Ben. They have a kid, Rich! Can you believe it?” He faces towards the front of the house, watching the lights inside turn off one by one. 

_ “Yes, Eddie. I can. Married people have sex. I know you’re not familiar with the subject marital sex but-” _

“You’re such an asshole! I can’t believe you. I never want to see you again.” He’s trying his best to sound grumpy, but he can’t stifle his laughter. Oh boy, if Myra could see him now she wouldn’t even recognize him. 

_ “That may be a problem, Eds. I guess you’ll just have to close your eyes.” _

“Hm?” Eddie inquires, mildly confused at his wording. He hears the squeal of brakes from behind him and turns to face the street. A sleek, black car pulls up, coming to a slow stop. A tall moron with a huge, dumb grin on his face is waving at him through the sunroof, cheering and making all sorts of ruckus. 

“I told you to close your eyes!” He calls as he climbs out of the sunroof and slides down the side of the car. Without a second thought, Eddie is bounding towards him and jumping up into his arms. They look like something out of a romantic comedy, with Richie wildly swinging him around and laughing into his ear. He wishes someone was standing there with a video camera so he could send it to Myra. _ Look how fucking happy I am now! _

“How did you get here so fast?” They’re both a little breathless, and Eddie is clutching onto Richie’s forearms like he’s going to float away.

“I took the first flight out. I just… I wanted to be here as soon as I could. You sounded so-” Richie moves his hand to Eddie’s shoulder, thumb moving in circles, “I was just really excited to see you.”

“You just hopped on a plane at the last minute?”

“That’s what you did!”

“That’s different! I was getting a divorce and running away from my home like a teenager.” Richie’s eyes light up at his words, grabbing at Eddie’s hand.

“That’s right! Let me see it!” He holds Eddie’s hand up to his face like he’s looking at a newlyweds ring, and kisses the sliver of untanned, soft skin where Eddie’s ring used to be. He goes bright red at Richie’s weird gesture, removing his hand from Richie’s and tucking it back into his pocket. “I already talked to Bev and everything, she told me I could sleep on the couch for the time being.”

“Bev knew? Damn, she’s sneaky. Why are you staying here, though? I bet there’s a lot of nice hotels in Chicago. I think any hotel rates higher than your old childhood friend’s couch.”

A softness falls over Richie’s face then, replacing the usual goofy expression. He’s not touching Eddie at all, but he is inching a little closer and making _ way _too much eye contact for Eddie’s head to stop spinning. 

“You thought I was gonna let you go through this alone? No way, Eds, you need your BFFL by your side right now.”

Eddie helps Richie drag all of his stuff upstairs into the loft area next to Eddie’s room, and- after Richie handed the driver a generous tip- Eddie unpacks Richie’s stuff into separate, manageable piles despite him insisting that he was more of a “live out of your suitcase” kind of guy. Richie is strewn across the leather couch, which isn’t even a pull-out couch much to Eddie’s dismay and guilt for taking the only bed. The dim light casts shadows over Richie’s angular face, illuminating his eyes. They glitter in a way that they couldn’t if his old glasses were obstructing them from the light. 

“Have you talked to the ex-missus yet?” 

Eddie is down on his knees, folding the final yellow button-up in Richie’s suitcase. He’s changed into pajamas, nice white draw-string shorts made in a material he is supposedly allergic to. The air-conditioning kicks on, a soothing hum vibrating throughout the house and combining with the soft murmur of a newscaster on the TV in front of the couch.

“No.” He knows that’s the only answer required of him, but something pushes him to say more. “I’m scared. I’m worried if I answer the phone or talk to her in person that she’ll manage to convince me that this is all stupid. Then I’ll be stuck, again.”

Just the sound of Richie moving on the couch, reminding Eddie that he’s really _ here _, is enough to send warm thrums through his chest. He moves from his back to his side, eyes studying the way Eddie folds his clothes. This is how they always used to live their lives, even though they never lived with each other. Almost every afternoon and weekend was spent sneaking through the other’s bedroom window to watch them and talk with them while they completed mundane tasks like homework or picking up their room. They couldn’t stand to not exist in the same room as each other back then.

“I’m not going to let that happen. If you try to go back to NYC I _ will _ lock you in my basement.”

They both giggle at this thought. If the room was dark enough a passerby would think that the two of them were teenagers. 

“However,” Richie continues, “I think that if I go back there my agent will lock _ me _in my basement.”

Eddie crawls across the floor and sits close to the couch, but not on it. It’s embarrassing just how much he loves studying Richie’s face every chance he gets. He knows that this is more than old friends reconnecting, it’s the start of a potential love story. He’s both exhilarated and terrified by that thought. 

“Why? Aren’t they working for _ you _?” Richie laughs at this and Eddie feels a bit insecure, like a kid who asked a dumb question in class. He flops back onto his back and a large hand dangles off the couch and moves towards Eddie’s, holding onto it loosely. It’s a gesture Richie doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing. 

“You’d think that’s how it’s supposed to work, huh?”

“Is it not?”

“No, not really. It’s a little bit of both. They sign a contract that says they’ll send roles and other gigs my way, I sign a contract that says they can control my every move. It’s a...a fucked up world. It’s scary, Eds. They…” He trails off, and Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so scared before, if _ scared _ is really the word for it. It’s an emotion he’s never quite seen on him, not even when he showed up at Eddie’s house, tears streaming down his face, after his mother had snapped and… _ well. _

“What kinda shit d’they make you do?” That’s all it takes before Richie is crying. It’s not the kind of desperate sob Eddie had seen on him before, it’s just a few single tears that roll down his cheek, gleaming like stars against his face. He gives a squeeze to the hand that’s still holding onto his. 

“Fuck. I-It’s not all bad. Not all of it. It sounds stupid now that I’m talking about it.” For a moment Eddie is afraid he’ll chicken out, run away from his problems like he always does, but he presses on, “They just turn you into this pathetic pile of nothing. They take you when you’re a kid and stupid and insecure and make you feel fucking awful about yourself until they can convince you to take off your ugly glasses and laugh a certain way and straighten your curls every single day-”

“You straighten your hair?” He doesn’t understand exactly why, but this lights a fire in his chest. Then, he remembers:

_ “Bobo the fucking clown and his faggot boyfriend!” _

He remembers Richie telling him about how he’s always been teased for his pretty black ringlets, nicknames ranging from Bobo the Clown to Poodle Head. He remembers Richie hiding it all under hats or the hoods of sweatshirts. He remembers how much he adored those spirals, unruly and obnoxious, just like him. 

Richie only nods in response to his question, carrying on, “They told me my face was too… unconventional. If I wanted to be taken seriously as an actor I would have to make myself look as close to conventional as I could. I rehearse smiles and laughs in the mirror all the time, I keep my glasses hidden in my nightstand, I straighten my hair, I work out every day. I… I’m the perfect celebrity, but _ still _nobody takes me seriously. I’m still ‘that funny lookin’ guy’ and I fucking hate it.”

“I love ‘that funny lookin’ guy’. You know, ‘that funny lookin’ guy’ was my first love.” Richie turns to look at him again, eyes more tearful than Eddie had imagined they would be. One tear runs down over the bridge of his nose. Eddie thumbs it away, eyes surely glowing with adoration. 

“The rest of the world doesn’t like ‘that funny lookin’ guy’, Eds. You have shit taste.”

“I think the rest of the world has shit taste, actually. I genuinely cannot tell the difference between Chris Evans, Chris Pratt, and Chris Hemsworth. There’s no fucking variety, I think the entirety of Hollywood is related in one way or another.” Richie chuckles softly and begins to rub circles into the back of Eddie’s hand. His eyes are exploring Eddie's, searching for a validation he probably hasn't had in years. “But the world is seriously missing out on Richie Tozier. Can’t believe a bunch of elitist morons actually made you think you’re not a fucking catch.”

_ “Do you not realize what a fucking catch you are?” _He hears 17-year-old Eddie asking Richie, him hiding his reddening face behind large, pale hands. 

“I can’t believe it either, but… I can hardly even look in the mirror anymore.” The gravity of the statement falls like an elephant on the other end of a seesaw, tossing Eddie off into a blur of anger and deep regret. 

“Rich.” He says but his voice sounds like it’s been swallowed, coming out all warbly and high. Richie blinks again and fresh tears fall down his face. He looks away from Eddie for the first time to dry his cheeks.

“I haven’t said that shit to anyone. For some reason I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut around you. I learned a long time ago to stop fighting that feeling.” Their eyes connect again and Eddie’s face feels like it’s on fire. He has so many people he’d like to beat up for Richie’s sake and so many different spots to kiss on Richie’s face. He settles on sitting still, eyes locked on the pretty brown ones in front of him.

Richie scoots over and pats the spot next to him on the couch. It’s small and will allow no room for personal space if Eddie lays there. He lays down anyway.

Rich is a perfect gentleman, maintaining as much distance between the two of them as he can. He settles his head against the arm of the couch, breath fanning over Eddie’s face. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been in this position.” Eddie says with a laugh, recalling the movie nights where they’d tortured the rest of the group with constant kissing and cuddling. 

“We couldn’t stay away from each other back then. It’s amazing your mom didn’t find out before you told her.” They both giggle then, like two kids trying and failing to keep a secret. They fall into a silence filled with blushes and smiles. Eddie can’t decide between staring at the ceiling or into Richie’s eyes.

“Hey,” He says, a question that he’s wanted to ask for a while tumbling off of his tongue, “Could I take a picture of us?”

Richie nods immediately, and Eddie gets to digging his little Blackberry out of his pocket. He rolls onto his side so they’re both facing the same way and smiles, wide and goofy. The flash goes off, sealing the moment forever.

“What’d you want that for?” Richie whispers, breath hot on his ear.

“Oh, no reason.” He mumbles in return, returning to his position on his back. He pulls up his texts with Myra.

_ WHERE ARE YOU? _

_ I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU HAD ME SERVED DIVORCE PAPERS WITHOUT TALKING TO ME FIRST. _

_ EDWARD KASPBRAK WHERE ARE YOU? _

_ YOUR MOTHER AND I ARE WORRIED SICK. _

He laughs at the texts before pulling up the picture of him and Richie, studying it for a moment, then sending it to her with the caption:

_ Richie Tozier says hi :) Oh, and please show this to my mother, too. _


	5. some and now none of you

Richie has a flood of problems cascading down on him like goddamn meteors at the moment. He can feel the constant buzzing from his fancy new iPhone 3G in his pocket, but he can’t bring himself to care. Last night, after exchanging giggles and stories, Eddie had fallen asleep on the couch next to him due to jet lag and stress. Now, with sunlight filtering in from the large window behind the couch, he feels at peace for the first time in a long time. If Stan were here right now he’d be giving him a lecture on how dangerous and stupid this is but he isn’t here, not yet. 

The phone goes off for the fifth time in 10 minutes and Richie decides that it’s time to suck it up and answer it. 

“Hello?”

_ “He answered! Shhh, give me a second. Richie? What’s going on? I’m driving to the airport right now with Bill. Why are you in Chicago? You’re so lucky you are my best friend because I could kill you right now.” _

_ _ “You’re right, I’m really lucky. Listen, it’s… a lot to explain. I reserved a hotel for you and Bill and Mike.”

_ “Mike? As in Mike Hanlon? Richie, what is going on?”  _ Richie eyes Eddie’s sleeping face to make sure he shows no signs of being awake.

_ _ “Eds is going through a bad time right now. I’m staying with him at Bev and Ben’s house. He needs us, Stan.”

_ “You’re with Eddie? This is… you know how this will end, Richie.” _ There’s some commotion in the background of the call, likely Bill reacting to the news. Stan seems to bicker with him for awhile before Richie responds.

“What if it doesn’t have to end that way?”

_ “There’s no other way for it to end. This isn’t good for you.” _

_ _ “This isn’t good for me? Stan, I’ve never been happier in my life than I am right now.”

_ “You’re one of the most famous comedic actors out there right now. This relationship won’t last, it can’t. Jen won’t let it happen. You’re not even out to the public. Can you imagine what this would do to Eddie, if he got caught in the shitstorm this will cause?” _

_ _ Richie knows that this is a guilt tactic, but he also knows it’s true. The celebrity world is insane and brutal and painful and Eddie doesn’t deserve any of it. He’s already had to deal with the constant criticism of his mother and ex-wife, he doesn’t deserve the entire world on his case, too. And Jen, his agent, she’ll have his head if the media catches a whiff of him being even remotely interested in men. He closes his eyes.

“I know, Stan, okay? I know. Just let me have this for now. Eddie needs this. We all need this. Everything will go back to normal soon, I promise.”

Stan reluctantly agrees to stop pestering him, and Richie decides it’s time for a shower. There’s nothing that will set a frazzled mind straight quite like a cold shower. 

When he’s around Eddie, it feels like everything he’s been through since they broke up had vanished, leaving no space in between then and now. That, of course, is untrue. Everything, all his horrible mistakes, his pain and misery, his fucked up self-esteem, it’s all still there. His responsibilities and occasional itch for something to numb the pain don’t just disappear overnight. That would only happen in a perfect world. The world he’s stuck in is mediocre at best, except for when he’s with Eddie. It’s just his luck that he’s the one thing in this world he’s not allowed to have. It’s “the Tozier luck”, that’s what his mom always called it.

He pops his head around the doorframe to check on Eddie once he’s finished getting dressed, and he finds a half-awake, groggy man staring back at him.

“Hey sleepyhead.” His voice is almost inaudible as he presses his chest against the frame, unable to stop the adoring smile he’s giving him. Eddie props himself up more and gives him a small wave. It doesn’t matter to him that they’re toeing the line between friendship and romance, Richie Tozier is married to the idea that he adores Eddie Kaspbrak, sorry ladies (and gents).

“Thought you left for a second.” Eddie murmurs, voice raspy with sleep. He cocks his head to the side, “Hey… wow. You really do straighten your hair. Look at that!”

Richie’s fingertips feel for the ends of his wet strands that have begun to curl up, even with the weight of the water on them. Eddie stands up from the couch and Richie tucks himself back into the bathroom.

“I can’t see as well as I used to, I probably need glasses myself. Let me see them.” Eddie meets him in the bathroom and pulls down on one of the spirals, straightening it and letting it curl back up. Richie smiles at him nervously, suddenly aware of every move he makes after his phone call with Stan. He can’t let himself get too close. “Speaking of which, where are your glasses?”

“Um,” Richie starts, finding his voice again, “They’re in my toiletry bag… here.”

He hands the small black bag to Eddie, who opens it and fishes around for the glasses case. He wastes no time opening it and sliding them onto Richie’s face. His fingertips brush over his temples, making him swallow anxiously. He imagines they look a lot like the Richie and Eddie from a lifetime ago, both smiling like flirty middle schoolers and staring at each other for a bit too long.

“Wow, ‘Chee. You look… like  _ you. _ ” He hesitates for several moments before continuing, “You look really good, like  _ good. _ ”

Richie shakes his head without thinking about it. He removes the glasses from his face and goes to put them away.

“Don’t. You’re with friends, come on. You can wear them for a few days.” Richie stares at him, considering his options. He’s always hated contacts, and he’s so tired of hiding from everyone for so long. Hollywood has pried him open and ridiculed him until he felt like a stranger in his own skin, but with the way Eddie is looking at him right now, he finally feels like he’s  _ home, _ “Unless you don’t want to. I just… I don’t want you to not wear them because you’re afraid what we’ll think. I, for one, love when you wear them.”

“Yeah?” He asks as he slides them back over his ears, blinking as the image of Eddie absolutely  _ beaming  _ at him becomes clear once again.

“Hell yeah.” Richie feels something hang between them, heavy and unnerving. Eddie’s smile twitches, Richie suddenly can’t make eye contact. They move away, like polarizing magnets. The doorstop wedges between them again, and maybe too much time has passed. Maybe Richie has missed his chance to even be friends with Eddie. Maybe the only chance he was going to be given was the one he got fifteen years ago and he certainly fucked that up beyond recognition. When it was all over Eddie wouldn’t even speak to him anymore. He doesn’t think he can go through that again. He doesn’t need to date him, he just needs him to be around. He can deal with yearning from a distance. He just can’t deal with losing Eddie. 

Richie pulls back further, scared that his disregard to physical affection and flirtatious remarks have pushed him away again. They’re on two sides of a revolving door, always chasing each other, always able to see each other but never able to touch each other. 

As long as he can see Eddie, he’s happy.

Mike shows up first and Richie absolutely cannot stop himself from tackling him to the ground- well, almost. If Mike wasn’t so goddamn strong now he definitely would’ve gone down. He’s taller and his muscles are much more well-defined, but he looks almost the same otherwise. He hugs Richie back with as much excitement, patting his back before moving on to bear hug Bev, Ben, and Eddie. 

“Are Stan and Bill coming too?”

“Yes! They’re getting settled into their hotel room. They should be over soon.”

All hell breaks loose as soon as Bill and Stan show up, in a good way.

“Wait, you two are fucking  _ married _ ?” Bev asks as soon as she sees them stroll in through the front door, hands linked. 

“Bev have you been on the internet in the past ten years?”

“Nine, actually.” Bill says nervously, leaning over to hug her. Stan giggles, leaning his head happily on Bill’s shoulder. Richie can’t believe he’s the same man who was warning him about how dangerous this was earlier that day. He’s looking at each of their faces like they aren’t real. Richie smiles to himself and basks in his triumph.

“Nine as of February this year. It took us awhile to get our shit together but… here we are.”

Eddie’s eyes burn into Richie’s face and he can’t physically stop the arm he throws around his shoulders, alarming Stan. 

“Eddie! How have you been?” He asks abruptly and Richie knows this is going to be a  _ very  _ long night.

Except, it isn’t. It’s actually fucking amazing. They make dinner together and drink together and do karaoke together. They laugh until they cry, dance with Ollie, and talk about everything that’s happened these past fifteen years.

“Oh my goooood!” Eddie cries, making his way towards Richie with a huge grin on his face, “Look at this shit!”

He thrusts his Blackberry into Richie’s face with the most recent text messages from his soon-to-be ex-wife on the screen.

** Myra 11:38pm**

_ Your mother just told me about your disgusting relationship with that man. A MAN, EDDIE! I’m on my way to the hospital right now. _

** Myra 11:49pm**

_ I could have gotten AIDS from you Eddie! Did you think about me at all? _

Richie starts clapping his hands together and giggling at the hilarity of these texts. Everyone else rushes over to see the content on the screen, as well.

“You were married to her for  _ fifteen  _ years?” Bev asks incredulously, leaning back against Ben’s chest. Ollie requests to see what’s making everyone laugh but Ben explains that some things aren’t for kiddos to see.

“Thirteen, but yeah, it was torture.”

“Makes dating me seem like it wasn’t that bad, huh?” Richie jokes, and it’s apparently the wrong thing to say. Ben and Bev turn away, air going completely still. Eddie looks up at him with sad eyes. “What?”

“Rich, do you think I broke up with you because I… wanted to?” Richie cocks an eyebrow and laughs, then looks around when the mood does not seem to lighten up at all.

“Yeah, Eddie. You pushed me out of the house screaming and crying. You kept saying ‘I never want to see you again’ and I just thought you’d…” He looks around at everyone, uncomfortable with them hearing this but seeing no other option, “I thought you’d gotten tired of me.”

Richie wonders what else he was supposed to have thought. Eddie didn’t speak to him for days so he snuck in through the window only to find an irate boy shoving him, nearly knocking him into the backyard. 

_ “Get out! I never want to see you again! I can’t do this anymore, Richie.” _

_ _ So, he left, and never heard from Eddie again until he saw him on the street in New York.

“Oh no,” Eddie goes quiet and looks over at Stan and Bill, who look at him in a way that says they haven’t heard another version of that story, either.

“You must all hate me. I was so wrapped up in what happened to me during that time that I didn’t even think…” He swipes at his lip with his thumb, thinking of what to say next, “My mom found out about us and said some  _ awful  _ shit. I mean, it was so bad I wanted to die,  _ actually  _ die. I couldn’t leave my room even if I wanted to. When you showed up, Rich, I was scared. I was terrified she’d see you. I ended things as quickly as I could. When she heard me yelling and saw you leaving the house she… she said she was ‘happy to have her good boy back’. It was fucked up, you guys. I didn’t- I never wanted to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

Richie’s mouth goes dry. The world flips over, suddenly putting everything into perspective. His eyes meet Stan’s, and it seems he feels the same way. Their break-up was never something that was wanted on either end. It was the universe trying to tear them apart, like the universe always does to everything Richie wants.

“It’s okay, Eds. I can’t believe you had to go through that.”

Instantaneously, all six of them are wrapped around Eddie, murmuring things like  _ “You’ll never be alone again” _ and  _ “we love you so much”. _ Eddie grows a little misty-eyed, Richie just pulls him closer. 

There’s some sort of  _ wholeness _ that washes over him when he’s touching Eddie. He remembers his first kiss with him, how he knew that if he had a ring on him right then he would have probably proposed to him, even though Eddie would’ve just slapped him for being such a hopelessly in love moron. He has the same feeling every time they bump into each other, share jokes with each other, and hug each other, like they’re doing right now. If he was in a romantic comedy, he might call that “true love” or “soulmates” or something cheesy like that. Whatever it is, he’d like to bottle it up and keep it forever. There’s nothing in the world that could be better than moments like these.

The phone call that comes after shatters everything all at once. 


	6. i am not the only traveler

Eddie Kaspbrak is not a snoop. No, no, no. He does not eavesdrop or nose around. That’s just not who he is. 

But hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. Sometimes there are exceptions.

One exception is when his ex-boyfriend/love of his life (maybe?) answers a phone call after an amazing night and his face grows dark, like he’s just been told a good friend of his died. Something tells Eddie that it’s something different, and that it’s something just as bad, if not worse. 

Richie pulls away from the group and steps out the front door for some privacy. Eddie looks around the room, at all of his friends who have begun uproariously laughing again, and he slinks away. He presses an ear to the cold, white door, hearing Richie’s comforting voice just barely making its way through the wood.

_ “Jen, all of that shit can wait. I needed to be with some friends.” _

_ _ _ … _

_ _ _ “Stan told you that?” _

_ _ _ …  _

_ _ _ “He needs me right now. I’m not trying to drag him into anything. I just want to help out a friend.” _

_ _ _ …  _

_ _ _ “I’ll make sure we aren’t photographed anywhere. I j-just want to make sure he’s okay.” _

_ _ _ …  _

_ _ _ “Fuck. Jen, listen. I’ll leave first thing in the morning… In half an hour, seriously? I know, I know. Just let me say goodbye. Then I’ll go and I’ll never talk to him again, if that’s what you want.” _

Eddie recoils from the door like he’s been burned. He’s hot all over, adrenaline seeping into his bloodstream. The door opens and he narrows his eyes at Richie, pushing him back outside and closing the door behind himself. This is a new Eddie, one that hasn’t been unleashed since he married Myra.

“What the fuck was that?” Richie’s hair and eyes are wild, curls bouncing with every move of his head, eyes magnified behind the glasses.

“Were you listening to me?”

“Shut up and start talking. Are you leaving us to go back to servitude for the same bitch that destroyed your self-esteem?” He’s never seen this side of himself before, and Richie clearly hasn’t either. His chest heaves and his hands nervously twitch, unsure of what to say.

“Eddie, I don’t have a choice. This is my life now.”

“You don’t even want this life anymore. Look at you, Richie, you won’t even look at yourself in the mirror. You’re… you really grew into yourself, when we were dating. Now, it’s like nothing changed at all.”

“You’re one to talk! You married your fucking mother, Eddie!” Richie gasps at his own words, and his voice lowers to a half-whisper, “I can’t just leave everything behind. This is the choice I made, there’s no going back.”

“Bullshit! I’m starting my whole life over at 33 years old. You can do it, too, Rich. Come on, we can do it together, like we always wanted to.” Eddie just wants to hear him say  _ “yes”  _ and feel him kiss him over and over until he can’t breathe. Richie looks so  _ scared _ and  _ small  _ and Eddie can’t even begin to imagine what he went through but he needs to hear it from him first, that he loves him too. 

“Eddie, it’s not that simple-”

“People just say that when they’re scared.”

“I am scared. I love you, Eddie, but I’m terrified. People are watching me all the time, criticising my every move. Nobody knows I’m bisexual, and who knows what will happen when they find out? I’d rather not know. And you, Eddie, you don’t even know half of the shit I’ve been through these past few years. If you did, I think you’d hate me.”

Eddie feels sick, moments away from hurling onto the grass of the front lawn. He’d spent the last fifteen years with Richie’s eyes in his head, looking down on every decision he made. He looked up to Richie so much and he was so terrified of what would happen if he saw what he’d done with his life. Now, with this skeletal, child-like,  _ pathetic  _ version of him standing in front of him, he doesn’t know what he was so scared of. The “manic pixie dream boy” effect he hadn’t realized he’d been clinging onto since he was a teenager faded away. All that was left was a shaking, scared, pitiful version of the man he had loved.

“I’m scared too, Richie!” His throat hurts and his eyes feel swollen, bulging out. He’s certain this is the ugliest he’s looked in days, but Richie is unrelenting with his softened expression. “Do you think I just up and left my wife for no reason? I know I had plenty of reasons to, but none of them were ever enough until I met you. You think you’re the only one who’s fucked up? I’m so beyond fucked up. I haven’t had sex in  _ fifteen  _ years. I married someone just like my mother because I am so scared of making my own decisions. Think about that, Rich. Think about it. I am so fucking terrified of making my own decisions, but yet I am entirely certain about one thing: you. And, if we’re being honest, I always have been. You were this dumb, juvenile idiot I met in sixth grade, but I was obsessed with you. You drove me batshit crazy but the way your face lit up when I laughed at one of your jokes, man, that stuff was like crack. Not that I’ve ever tried it. And I know you have. Or, you know, whatever it was. I saw the papers from ten years ago with pictures of Stan crying outside of the hospital. I heard all about it, Rich, I called him. Of course I did. You made a  _ mistake,  _ and I know that’s not the only one. I don’t care. I’ve made so, so many. Don’t be so self-centered and pretend like yours are the only ones that matter. I forgive you, because I love you so much. I know you forgive me because that’s just who you are. We are two stupid, disorganized messes, but we love each other. We just couldn’t ever get it right. Please, don’t let this be another one of those times. We’re both miserable. Let’s work on ourselves together. We make each other better people. Please, don’t leave this behind because you’re scared. That’s your fatal flaw- you’re always so scared of fucking something up. Isn’t that what you told me when we were kids? That you pushed me away on purpose so that I wouldn’t break your heart first? Let yourself fuck things up. I promise I’ll keep coming back, over and over. I’m not going to walk away from this, you can't make me. This is the only real thing I’ve ever felt.”

“Eddie, I…” He’s noticeably retreating from Eddie, closing in on himself. Eddie realizes all too late that he messed up, pointing out Richie’s weaknesses. The one thing Richie hates more than himself is people who can read him too well. “Don’t do this.”

“Please, ‘Chee.” He pulls the  _ Chee  _ card because it’s the last thing he has left, “Let’s go to fucking Montana or something. I hear it’s really pretty there. We could disappear from the celebrity world. You had a good run, but it’s eating you up inside. Let it go. We could get married, or not, if you don’t want that. I only know I want you. We could live in a shed in Florida, I don’t care. I just want you.”

Richie walks towards him, and for a moment Eddie thinks he’s won. He presses a gentle kiss to Eddie’s cheek, a sorrowful look in his eyes.

“I love you, but I have to go. Let’s make it easier on ourselves and just forget this happened.”

“I’ve been trying to forget you for fifteen years, you asshole. I’m glad to know it’s so fucking easy for you.” He pulls away, eyes ablaze. “When you find yourself thinking about this fifteen years from now, remember that I would’ve fought for you.”

Richie’s eyes are overflowing with tears, running down his face and neck, soaking the collar of his shirt, “Eddie, I’m sorry.”

A car skirts around the corner, stopping in front of the house. 

“One thing, before you go. Take this.” Shaky hands pull the letter from his dad out of his pocket. “If you can read that and still believe you’re making the right choice, then I won’t stop you.” Richie takes the paper from him but doesn’t look at it. He takes in a few shaky breaths before turning back towards the car. Eddie looks at the ground, too scared to watch him walk away. If he looks up, he knows he’ll crumble and break down. He hears the sound of a door closing, and the tires turn over the street and shoot off, into the early morning darkness. The moon hangs in the sky, indifferent to Eddie’s suffering. He feels like the world should be rocketing down in pieces, falling apart like a demolished building. It goes on, though. It keeps turning. Animals make noises and the Losers laugh in the distance, telling Eddie it’s time to move on. 

Will there come a day when he will be good enough to make someone stay? Someone who doesn’t want to manipulate and control him? Or is he fated to only be loved by those who cannot love him properly?

He makes his way back into the house. Everything is a blur, he collapses into Bev’s arms and hears Bill and Stan bickering from their place on the couch. They’re all trying to figure out what happened and all Eddie can supply them with is  _ “he left”. _

“Fuck it, I’m calling him.” All eyes in the room move to Stan who angrily paces back and forth as his phone rings.

“Did he say anything before he left?” Mike asks, eyes full of concern. They all are huddling into a circle as Stan waits for Richie to pick up.

“No, but, I overheard him talking to someone named Jen. I think he was leaving because she wanted him to.”

“That’s his agent.” Bill speaks up, eyeing his husband across the room. “She has him wrapped around her pinky.”

“Richie?” Stan suddenly says, “Why did you leave?... No, I changed my mind, Rich. Don’t listen to Jen.”

Everyone leans closer, a hush falling over the room.

“Because we didn’t know the full story back then.” Stan continues, and Eddie realizes that they’re talking about him.  _ He  _ is what Stan changed his mind on. Stan changed his mind because he thought Eddie had dumped Richie in the worst way possible, and for no reason at all, but he only knew half of the story then. Eddie’s heart hurts when he realizes that Stan must have hated him this entire time. “This is the happiest I’ve seen you since high school. Don’t waste this… No, you’re not happy, and we all know it. Stop bullshitting me. You said it yourself-  _ ‘what if it doesn’t have to end that way?’ _ \- well, maybe it doesn’t… Rich, no!”

Stan pulls his phone away from his ear and stares at it sadly. Eddie’s eyes return to the floor. He feels Mike put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into his side.

“What did he say?” Bill asks, crossing the room to meet Stan.

“I don’t know. He’s acting like an idiot. I… I wish I hadn’t said the stuff I said before. Between me and Jen, he’s convinced he has to return back to his ‘normal’ life.”

Eddie ambles up the stairs and into his guest bedroom, checking his phone in the dark and finding trending photos of Richie at the Chicago Midway Airport, attempting to hide his curls under a beanie. The glasses are gone. Eddie throws his phone across the room and it lands on the carpeted floor with a soft  _ thump.  _ He buries his head in the pillows. 

Where is he supposed to go now? Richie was the only thing he was sure about, and now he has nothing. Even with his amazing friends downstairs, he still feels lost. Maybe he’ll move to Hawaii and start all over again. He could live in a shed and cut off his access to the internet so he’ll never be reminded of Richie again. He could surf everyday and make new friends and pretend to be happy. It would be no use though, because a piece of Richie has somehow become a piece of him, and that is something he can never get rid of. He’s been trying to rid himself of Richie ever since they broke up, but it’s never worked. No, Richie is part of him. He loved Richie first and last, he’s sure there’s no one else on this earth for him. They just couldn’t get it right, they missed their window, all because Eddie didn’t have the guts to tell his mother off. He was so close to a perfect life. Sure, it wouldn’t be  _ perfect, _ they’d probably fight all the time and be strapped for money and fall apart but they’d always come back together, Eddie was certain of that. If only they had gotten it right the first time.

The alcohol in his system pushes him into a deep sleep where he dreams about a life where he hadn’t fucked up and pushed everyone away. He dreams about little kids and a tiny, pretty house and silver wedding bands. They’re nice dreams that will feel like nightmares when he wakes up. 

The mattress moves underneath him with the weight of someone sitting down on it. He cracks an eye open and spies Bev’s hand, blurry with nails painted in neon green polish. Sunlight is flowing in through the window, illuminating the polish. He closes his eyes again.

“I have a headache, Bev. My eyes hurt, my throat is sore. Just let me sleep.”

“Sorry to ruin your fantasy, bud, but I’m not Bev. Also, it’s nearly two in the afternoon, I think you should be up by now.” A voice says with a teasing tone. It sends warm thrills through Eddie’s body and he snaps up at the waist, coming face to face with Richie. He’s clearly been crying and he looks absolutely exhausted, but he’s really there, sitting next to Eddie.

“Rich,” He says slowly, trying not to get his hopes up, “what are you doing here?”

“I read your letter- or, well, your dads letter. And wow, that was something.” He smiles, but it’s small and sad. “I can’t believe… is that what made you leave Myra?”

Eddie nods slowly, crossing his legs and leaning against the headboard.

“Well, it got me thinking, too. If I died tomorrow, would I be proud of the life I’ve led? No, definitely not. But why?” He clears his throat, and ventures to put his hand over Eddie’s. Eddie welcomes it, turns his hand over and grabs onto Richie’s. “I was only happy once. And obviously, it was when I was with you. Duh, why else would I be here? But, I was still terrified. So, I had to look at my options and decide which one scared me less. Living the rest of my life under the control of people who didn’t love me for who I am is terrifying, but it’s easier than taking the risk of leaving it all behind to be with you. You terrify me, Eddie. You’re my wild card. I’m so scared of being rejected by you, losing you because I  _ know  _ you’re better than me. You deserve better than me. You are the scariest option I could’ve chosen, and yet, you are the only thing I’ve ever wanted this badly in my life. I choose you. I don’t know why I thought I had any other choice. You make me want to get better. I want to learn to be good enough for you, Eds. Let’s learn how to be ourselves, together.”

He presents two cheesy, hand drawn plane tickets. They’re crookedly cut pieces of paper with black ink and Eddie wonders when he even had the time or supplies to do this. One has his name and the other has Richie’s, both with the flight destination “MONTANA” written on them. If he wasn’t crying before, he certainly is now. Tears stream down his face and drip onto the “tickets”, making the ink run. He opens up his mouth to speak but Richie holds up a finger.

“I have one more thing.” He stands up off the bed, stuffing a hand into his pocket, and pulls out a box, “When we were eighteen, I was so ridiculously in love with you. I didn’t think I could love you anymore than I did then. I didn’t think it was possible. Turns out, it is. But, you see, when I realized that we had the kind of relationship that everyone is constantly searching for, that ‘one in a million’ kind of relationship, well… I bought a ring. It makes me cringe a little now, but I did. I didn’t have a plan yet, but I knew that I would someday. I knew that you were my ‘one’. That’s never changed, if I’m being honest. I think you know that, too. And, Eddie, I just don’t want to wait any longer.” He lowers himself down onto one knee, the biggest grin Eddie has ever seen on his face, “Will you marry me, Eds?”

“Did you really have to call me Eds?” He asks, but he’s crying and it comes out through sobs and sounds much less angry than he had meant it to, “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot. I’ve only been waiting fifteen years.” 

He launches himself at Richie, kissing him with fifteen years worth of pent up love and passion. They’re both crying, so it’s sloppy and wet, but it’s the best kiss Eddie has ever had. It only takes a minute before Richie starts to wobble on his knees and they both tumble onto the floor, side by side.

“We don’t have to get married right away or even anytime soon, if you don’t want to. I just-”

“Let’s get married this week.”

“This week? Eddie Spaghetti, are you feeling okay? It’s not like you to rush into things.” Richie pretends to feel Eddie’s forehead to check his temperature. 

“Exactly. I’m scared of doing  _ everything.  _ But this is something I’ve wanted to do since I met you. Please, let’s get married. Here, in Chicago, before everyone flies back home.”

They do it in Ben and Bev’s backyard, which is a huge, green expanse with rose bushes all along the edges. Stan and Bill spend  _ hours _ making an arch out of wood and fake flowers from a craft store. Bev goes out and finds them the best suits she can, which is a ridiculous orange, tropical print for Richie and a powder blue one for Eddie which matches the color of the cartoon waves on Richie’s very well. Ben and Mike hand make rings out of titanium with “Tozier” printed on the outside. 

It is truly the ugliest, most beautiful, eccentric wedding the world has ever seen. Ollie sprinkles flower petals all over the ground and eventually gets so excited he tosses the flower bucket across the yard, and Mike has to placate him with a chocolate cake pop so he doesn’t start running around on the grass. Stan cries more than Eddie has ever seen, even Bill says that he didn't cry that much at their own wedding. Ben officiates the wedding, of course, a fact of which Bev is very proud of. 

And Eddie, “Anal Eddie” as Richie might say (no, that’s not a sex joke), well he couldn’t be happier. He thinks it’s the most perfect wedding he could have ever asked for. 

15 YEARS LATER - POLSON, MONTANA

_ _ _ Dad, _

_ _ _ I don’t know when I fell in love with him. I wish I could remember. I think it was the first day we met. He made a joke about mom, I think. Something like that, one of those ‘your mom’ jokes. I’m pretty sure I scolded him for it, and he called me cute. I hated him so much. I hated him with every bone in my body, but oh god, on the rare occasion that I actually laughed at one of his jokes, his face lit up like a Christmas tree and I loved it. As much as I hated him, I loved when he looked at me like that. That went on for six more years before we finally became friends, if you can believe that. I think I knew even then that we had a love for each other so strong it was daunting, so I avoided him like the plague. Then fate came in and said ‘fuck that’ and forced us to get to know each other. We fell in love so fast, so hard. He was caring and loved me so well. And I messed it all up. Actually, Richie told me I have to stop saying that and blaming myself. It was really mom who messed it all up, because I was just a kid and she manipulated me. I destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to me because she told me that she knew what was best for me. I didn’t know how to trust myself. I still don’t, but I’m working on that. We met again fifteen years later, and almost missed our chance again, but then we didn’t. He actually proposed to me, which is crazy, and I almost said no. But then I remembered what you said in your letter, that life is short and at that point I’d already gotten four more years than you had. So, I said yes.  _

_ _ _ It’s our fifteenth anniversary, which is why I decided to write you. I know you probably can’t read this, but I still wanted to put it out there. I’m 48 years old, more in love than I’ve ever been, and spending every moment I can with the beautiful idiot who decided to marry me. I’m so lucky life gave me a second chance. I’m so lucky that we both decided we’d been acting like idiots for too long.  _

_ _ _ We created a beautiful life together. We have this gorgeous little girl. Richie says she looks just like me, which is stupid because she’s adopted. It still makes me cry every time he says it, though. Her name is Francesca, but we call her “Frankie”. That’s us, Eddie, Richie, and Frankie Tozier. And oh man, she has both of our worst traits in the best way possible. She’s constantly cracking jokes and she has a terrible attitude. I’ve never loved anything more (don’t tell Richie, he’d cry).  _

_ _ _ I wish you were here to see it all, but I know that without you, I wouldn’t have ended up here. That letter changed everything for me, Dad. I want to thank you, and this is the only way I know how. I would have lived my life tied to two abusers, but you saved me. I’m so sorry that you missed out on so much. Every time I’m watching Richie run through a beautiful park here in Montana with Frankie, chasing her while she screams with laughter, I make sure I’m enjoying it not only for me, but also for you. I’m so in love with my life. Even when Richie and I fight or Frankie has a bad day, I’m still so in love with my life. I send mom pictures of our family every year, but she never sends anything back. I hope she’s losing her mind with anger. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because I know, even if there’s no afterlife, you’re still smiling down on me. _

_ _ _ I love you. _

_ Your son, _

_ Edward Frank Tozier _


End file.
